


we carve our steps into the salt

by whiskeyjuniper



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Blood, Ghosts, Hauntings, Horror, Lighthouse Keeper AU, M/M, Monsters, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Violence, Weirdness, gonna get a little lovecraftian this time, mild character death but its nbd i promise, other people in it- Andrew Adam Steven ricky goldsworth, those things go together right?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-08-23 08:15:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyjuniper/pseuds/whiskeyjuniper
Summary: Lighthouse AU.A year in the life of Shane, Ryan, and Brent as lighthouse keepers, stuck on a haunted island (and stuck with eachother).





	1. March

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm back!
> 
> Having trouble tagging this without giving spoilers, so if you're concerned message me and I'll give you the spoilery TW list. But if you've read my other one, Host of Sheets, it's about the same amount of weird horror stuff. I just pushed this fic up to an M rating to give me some wiggle room just in case. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

**RYAN**

 

It was 1:23am on a Tuesday, and Ryan Steven Bergara was... unfortunate levels of drunk.

Fortunately, he was too drunk to care.

The chatter that rolled through the small bar in swells and waves wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out the sound of the choppy ocean roaring right outside, or the rain pounding on the windows, but it was enough to give Ryan a sense of belonging, warm and right in the middle of it all sprawled in his seat near the front of the bar.

There was a flush evident on his cheeks and in the way he slumped in his seat, in how he happily chattered to the strangers that had been slowly gathering around his table with a little bit of a slur to his words. He raised his glass of whiskey ‘til it glimmered in the low light, studying the amber before shaking his head out of his reverie to grin at his newfound friends. Most seemed like regulars to this tiny bar, instead of a stranger like him, in this seaside town he’d never been to before, way up the Pacific coast. He’d come for a very specific reason, and wouldn’t be here much longer, so he didn’t care exactly where it was on the map.

“Okay, okay- everyone listen up for a sec!” He straightened on his stool. Someone whistled, several playfully flipped him off, and Ryan grinned at them all.

“I wanna make one last toast! To… well, _me_ , I guess-- is that breaking some sorta toasting rule?-- anyway, a toast to what I’m sure will be the most bizarre trip of my life.” 

This time, his laughter was settling into something closer to a disbelieving giggle, “Tomorrow, it’s goodbye to civilization, goodbye to friends, to this bar full of friendly strangers! And… goodbye in general, I guess. To bars. To grocery stores, and college classes, and— well, shit, you know, all of it.” 

His small gathered crowd looked at him curiously. Ryan paused, pursing lips sour with whiskey.

“...I’ve made a huge fucking mistake, haven’t I?” 

But he laughed again, brushing it off, and a stranger in his inner circle of newly acquired friends poked into the conversation curiously. He leaned an elbow up on the bar perilously close to Ryan’s half-empty glass. 

“That really all you’re gonna give us? Where you going?” He asked with a smile. 

Ryan didn’t mind the intrusion, leaning heavily over his table to retrieve the half-full bottle of whiskey he’d bought and refilling the stranger’s glass as well as his own. The man smiled, tipping his glass to Ryan in thanks.

Their glasses clinked clumsily. Ryan leant in, almost like he was sharing a secret, but his theatrical whisper did little but draw attention. The rest leaned in a little closer as well.

“Tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, I am meeting a shipmaster at the dock right there outside and I’m sailing off to be dumped at the edge of the fuckin’ world.”

The crowd looked at him, waiting for him to continue, and he clarified, this time to all of them.

“I got this letter, asking if I’d consider working as a keeper for a lighthouse near here.”

One of the men to his left furrowed his brows. “Been livin’ here for a long time— I didn’t know there was a lighthouse all that nearby.”

“There is!” Ryan straightened up in his seat. “But far, I mean. Several hours sail.”

He laughed again, clapping his hands together and scraping them through his hair, nearly dislodging his beanie before he tugs it down closer to his ears.

“I’m gonna be a fuckin’ lighthouse keeper. Didn’t even know they had those anymore. Isn’t it all automated now?” He asked, mostly rhetorically, looking out to his little crowd. He got nothing but a round of shrugs.

“So why’d you agree to it? It was just a letter. Easy to toss,” the stranger from before said.

“For the _adventure_!” Ryan’s drink sloshed a little in his enthusiasm before he steadied himself. He lowered his voice, “And because they’re gonna give me enough cash to pay my student loans. All of them.”

“Huh. That’s… that’s actually kinda impressive.”

“Oh, hell yeah it is. I have... a lot of student loans. Honestly? I was sorta drowning in them. Perfect timing- the letter was, I mean. How could I say no? A single year out of my life, and I get to start over fresh when I’m out. Do whatever the hell I want.”

Ryan pulled out his cellphone, squinting at the screen, at the numbers blurring there. 

”Fuck. _Fuck_ , it’s so late.” He threw back the rest of his drink and slid to his feet from the tall chair with only a little bit of a wobble. The stranger steadied him with a firm hand on his elbow. 

“Careful, there.” 

Ryan gave him a thumbs up, rubbing a hand over his face, “M’ always careful, bro. So, so careful. S’just... time for bed. Gotta get up real early tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you said that. ‘Crack of dawn’ and all. ...Why are you drinking so late if you have to get up that early?”

Ryan pursed his lips to think about it, shoulder heavy against the other man. “...I just wanted one more night, with people. I don’t want to be lonely— do you think I’ll be lonely?”

His dark eyes were open and searching, earnest from drink as he looked up at the other man.

“...I think you’ll be fine. A year’s not that long. Time enough to get away, hide for a little while. Maybe even come back a new man. But you—”

The other man took the bottle away from Ryan with a tilted smile.

“--You should probably be done with all the drinking now.”

Ryan shook his head, rueful, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, right? You guys should finish it. Hey, man— thanks. For all the listening.”

Someone else in his crowd pulled the bottle to them with a cheer, already twisting off the cap. It was going to be gone in seconds, if their enthusiasm was anything to go by. Ryan laughed, but then pressed the heel of his hand to his temple.

“Fuuuck. Fuck— tomorrow, I’m gonna be hungover. On a boat. To go live on a rock, in the middle of the ocean. With complete strangers. Ones I’m probably gonna hurl on, at this rate. I’ve made the _hugest_ fuckin’ mistake. Big. Gargantuan...”

“You going to get to your hotel room okay?” Someone said- Sandy? Sheryl? He remembered her feathered reddish hair, anyway. She had a concerned twist to her mouth. 

Ryan waved her off, “Yeah! Yeah. ‘S not far.”

He pushed open the door. The wind and rain instantly howled straight through to his skin, despite the layers he wore. He gritted his teeth, pulled up his hood, and stepped outside. The stranger watched him go for only a moment before turning back to the whiskey Ryan had poured for him.

This time tomorrow, he’d be living on a rock in the middle of the ocean for an entire year. 

And Ryan had made a huge fucking mistake. But it wasn’t the one he thought it was.

 

**BRENT**

 

Brent closed his eyes, leaning his elbows on the railing of the ship to slowly breathe in the salt air. The sea was calm, a lovely sight after last evening’s awful storm. He’d watched it from his motel window and worried. But he needn’t have been. It was a lovely day for a long sail.

His new ‘co-workers’ stood at the railing nearby.

Shane was slumped against the rail, staring out onto the horizon. He was tall and his shoulders hunched in like he was uncomfortable about that fact. But he was certainly handsome, if in a faded sort of way. Sandy brown hair tousled from salt air. Long legs. A face that was all puzzle pieces of mismatched features that still looked good when compiled into a whole. The man slumped in his jacket and barely spoke a word, even when they’d made introductions. 

Brent noticed a ring on his finger, gleaming gold, and wondered why he’d agreed to this. A year off the mainland required a distinct lack of ties.

His gaze flicked to Ryan next, and lingered there a little longer. He was the shortest of the three but he looked strong enough to make up for it, shoulders sturdy under his windbreaker, forearms defined where Brent could see his sleeves pushed up. He was all darks on this dreary morning-- dark circles under his eyes, dark hair, and a dark grin that caught Brent’s attention from the first moment he saw it.

It was the type of grin he couldn't wait to see again.

Though Shane hadn’t noticed his musing, Ryan caught his gaze almost immediately, and raised a brow right back. Brent smiled at him. Ryan didn’t reciprocate, but Brent ventured forth anyway, now that he’d been caught.

“...So what was your thought behind agreeing to all this, Ryan?”

Ryan’s lips curled into a smile, “Brent. We’ve got a long-- very long-- time to get to know one another. Do we really have to start at minute one?”

It wasn’t quite the answer Brent was looking for, or even expecting. He tried not to frown (and failed, apparently, by the way Ryan laughed).

“Wow, that’s quite a pout! Fine. Tell me why _you’re_ doing this.” Ryan teased.

Brent lit up, and didn’t bother dampening his enthusiasm. He’d been waiting years for an opportunity like this. “I’m doing a graduate studies program in Marine Ecology, and living a year in such a remote, closed ecosystem sounded like the perfect inspiration when they sent me the letter of invitation. I was thinking about writing my dissertation on a particular species of bees that I heard might still live on the island? But I’m not sure.”

“Oh. So you’re a nerd.”

His tone didn’t seem harsh. Ryan was even grinning again, so Brent cautiously smiled back. His gaze slid to Shane, still staring intently out at the sea.

“How about you, Shane?”

“Oh, no, I’m on Ryan’s side for this one. Let’s avoid the small talk until absolutely necessary.”

It was a flat tone, maybe a joke but it was hard it tell. That brought a distinct purse to Brent’s lips. Neither of them wanted to even try and be friendly? If they didn’t get along, this was going to be a rough year. 

Maybe Brent had made a mistake, coming here.

As land came into view, though, the negative feelings fell away.His gaze slid from the curve of Ryan’s face to the jagged edges of the island. 

It was smaller than he was expecting, a simple slab of rock jutting up from the ocean, tipped with verdant green and ringed by sharp spikes of stone like the island was unfurling spears towards the sky. The fog hadn’t yet burned off, but it was a cold early March and most likely wouldn’t. It softened all the edges, beckoning Brent in.

The lighthouse itself was painted bone white, a stark straight line perched up against the edge of the cliff. Ryan and Shane had gone silent beside him, all of them watching their new home.

”Well. Homely.” Shane said. He turned to the other two, and Brent finally saw something like a smile, or at least a curl of his lips approximating one. “Well roomies, welcome to the mansion. We’re gonna have so many wild parties.”

Ryan snorted, a grin sprouting on his lips.

“Invite all our friends. Pull the fancy wine from the cellar.”

Ryan was clearly adding to the joke. No ships came in or out unless the shipmaster was bringing in supplies, with a helicopter for only the most dire emergencies. And no one else lived on the island. There would be no parties.

Brent cocked his head at the two of them as they kept the joke going; they’d already found a flow in their banter, and it was like a game of double dutch, trying to find an in-- and even then, if it was off beat, he wouldn’t make it. 

His gaze skipped back and forth between the two of them, and he didn’t open his mouth-

“Did you remember to pick up the balloons?”

“Aw, fuck. I forgot.”

“Ryan no- tell me you at least got the sheetcake.”

“Party this good deserves better than sheetcake. But I’m sure you know how to bake from scratch, right? Because Betty Crocker ain’t invited. She knows what she did.”

“Ha-- no, I thought you did. Serious side note- I don’t actually know how to cook anything.”

“Fuck. Me neither. We’re all gonna starve.”

Shane smiled and Ryan laughed and Brent laughed with them, softly. They had an easy way with one another already, like old friends. Maybe one of them was good at that, warming up to people. Maybe both of them were. Brent wasn’t.

The boat landed against a small worn dock with a booming shudder of wood against wood, and they all stumbled.

The shipmaster ignored the rough landing, hopping over the rail to tie the boat to a post on the dock. Brent leaned down to gather his things, throwing the strap of his laptop bag crossways over his shoulder and reaching for his suitcase. He and Shane had packed about the same amount, Shane armed with a duffel bag and suitcase, but Ryan leaned down to pick up a single, shabby backpack and shrugged it over one shoulder. He noticed Brent watching him, and narrowed his eyes.

“What? Just ‘cause I didn’t pack my second set of evening wear, like you two did? It’s called economy, Brent.”

Brent gave a quick nod, embarrassed. He wasn’t judging. Mostly. It was just such a small amount of things to pack for a entire year away.

He absently stepped over the edge of the boat, and found out that the planks were further apart than he thought when he missed his first step onto the dock. He nearly face-planted save for Ryan grabbing his arm, holding him steady as he scrambled back up to his feet, face on fire.

“Ah- hell, sorry-”

“Don’t drown, huh? We need you.”

Ryan smiled, and Brent responded automatically, even if his cheeks were still burning.

They all three walked down the dock, until their boots pressed into the soft sand. Shane looked up then, squinting at the sun where it filtered hazily through fog.

“Home sweet home,” he said softly.

 

**SHANE**

 

It was all quite lovely, which was about what Shane expected. The beach was soft, dark gray sand, fine pebbles worn smooth and shifting under his boots, and then there were the cliffs jutting up in stark, stunning towers above their heads. The shipmaster led them up the beach to a stairway carved right into the rock face. It was steep, but not as steep it could’ve been if whoever had made them had been just a little bit lazier calculating the incline, and for that Shane was grateful.

But either way, Shane was immediately out of breath as they marched- fuck, he was out of shape. The shipmaster trudged up the steps like he’d done it a hundred times before and Ryan trailed right after, brows furrowed in concentration, but he wasn’t breathing hard, not like Shane was. His only relief was that it looked like the other one- what was his name again? Brent?- was struggling, too. At least Shane wasn’t alone. 

This life would be good for him; working outside, fresh air- he’d heard it was a hard job, lots of tasks from sun up to sun down, seven days a week. Exactly what he wanted. Something to keep his mind on.

So he grit his teeth and marched up the last of those steps, and was rewarded by the world opening up from gray stone to greenery. 

He paused to take it all in-- they all did.

The lighthouse was to his left, a lovely and skeletal creature. Built in 1890, but still standing tall and proud. Shane fell in love immediately. As they passed by it, they noticed some bored keeper before them had decorated the base of it with shells pressed into plaster, hundreds of them in shades of pink, blue, and rainbow abalone. It was pretty, must have taken weeks. Ryan said he didn’t understand why they would waste their time on it, but Shane did. It was something meditative and simple to lose yourself in.

Nestled behind the lighthouse was where they would be living, a squarish building the same off-white as the lighthouse itself. And then small workshed stood at his right at the highest part of the island, a stone structure a little further down-- but the rest?

Green. Tall stalks of green and gold, swaying with the chill spring air. Up to even his knees, in some places. The greenery sloped downwards and fell out of sight, and beyond that was just more ocean, a ring of perfect blue around them. Shane breathed.

“Set your things down inside, and I’ll go through your training.” The shipmaster said, leading them to the squat white building. Shane almost wanted to call it a cottage, but that was too quaint of a word for the stout structure they’d all three be calling home. 

The front door led straight into the kitchen common area, dim and wooden. It looked like it’d been built about the same time as the lighthouse, but at least it’d had its shares of upgrades since then, with a deep metal sink and a steel fridge tucked into the corner. The cupboards and table looked handmade, carved oak worn smooth from decades of use. Shane took a moment to admire the heavy table, running his fingertips over the grain.

He heard Ryan’s cheer down the narrow hall, already ahead of them.

“Fuck yeah, separate bedrooms! None of that barracks shit.”

Shane followed, bemused. Ryan was right; they had their own bedrooms, even if they were quite small. Each had a narrow metal bed that Shane was sure his feet would hang off of shoved up against the window and a squat dresser with three drawers-- there wasn’t really room for much more. To be honest, Shane didn’t care. It would do. 

Shane set his bags down by the door, and came back out to meet the others.

The shipmaster led them on a tour, and with each stop they made, he explained another task they’d be taking on. Brent pulled out a notebook and hastily began taking notes. Shane could tell Ryan was trying not to make fun of him again. But Brent was in the right here. There was a lot to do.

For their new home: cleaning, cooking (no grocery stores, so Shane was about to learn a grip of new things), caring for the chickens outside, wiping down the walls with a sharp-smelling clove oil to keep the mildew down-- understandable enough, as he could feel the water in the air, and it had to be hard on the wooden structures.

For the outside world: waking up at dawn, tracking the weather and waves and sending in reports with the ancient as shit computer via satellite, their only tie to the outside. Writing daily logs in a ridiculously oversized old book kept on its own wooden pedestal in the kitchen, although that was tradition more than anything. Shane loved the history of it, excited to sift through its pages later even if the other two seemed less than interested.

And then, of course, there was the lighthouse itself.

It was an old one, so they were doing things the old-fashioned way; polishing the reflective metal plates, refilling the oil, sweeping piles of ash away as they gathered around the wicks.

Stepping inside, Brent and Ryan immediately looked up, but Shane closed his eyes, like he could breathe in over a hundred years of use all at once. He only opened them again when he’d found it wasn’t quite the feeling of coming home that’d he hoped; just a very familiar… nothing. Whatever that spur of love he’d felt at first glance had been, he couldn’t dredge more than a memory of it up now. Instead, he stood in the halls and looked up with the other two.

The winding stairs were dark wood, nearly black, a sharp contrast to the white plaster walls. They made their way up those steps as well, and Shane was going to have to get used to the harsh twist of vertigo eventually. 

Oh, but the view. This was more like it. 

He felt something peaceful settle and shift in him as they stepped into the open portal at the top of the lighthouse, the lamp at his back and the cold salt breeze on his face, miles away from anywhere. 

Maybe he could be alright, here.

The rest of the day passed quickly, the shipmaster demonstrating each of their tasks with routine efficiency, shoulders bumping and brushing as all of them crowded around him to watch in the too-small loop of the top of the lighthouse.

Shane side-eyed his new compatriots. Brent sat on the steps, out of the way, trimming the wick of the oil lamp. Ryan hunched over a silver plate, scrubbing at it, the swoop of his dark bangs hanging over his eyes. His teeth were gritted in concentration, something annoyed on his face.

“You’re gonna polish that down to nothing,” Shane said softly, and Ryan lifted his head to furrow his brows at him.

“Didn’t think there’d be so much fuckin’ work on such a small goddam island,” he grumbled, and Shane snorted. 

“They warned us, didn’t they?”

Ryan paused.

“Yeah, I guess.” He admitted, but he didn’t look happy about it. He bent back over the plate, dipping the rag in the oil and going back to work.

….

The sun was sinking below the dusky orange horizon when the shipmaster finally stood and said it was time. They watched as he slotted the plates into place and lit the match. The wick flared to life, and with a flick of a switch the gears started to spin, the whole lighthouse whirring to life in front of them. The boys watched in silence as the light beamed, spreading out over the ocean.

“Wow,” Brent said, and Ryan snorted. “It’s just a fuckin’ light, I’m sure we’ll get sick of it quick enough.”

The ducked when it swung their way, the brilliant light swooping over their heads, and the shipmaster led them downstairs.

“It should be lit through the night, every night. Every couple of hours it will need to be checked on, keep watch.” He said quietly, “There are three of you here for a reason-- keep your shifts.”

The shipmaster was certainly no-nonsense; Shane had yet to hear a whit of small talk from him. Actually, thinking on it now, Shane wasn’t even sure what his name was. He watched the back of the man’s head as they made their way through the grass to their cottage.

Dinner was more of the same, the shipmaster going over the pantry’s contents. Shane and Ryan both brightened at the large stock of coffee, bags of it, whole beans and an old-fashioned grinder. Noticing each other’s matching expressions, they smiled.

“What?” Brent said, eyes flicking from the two of them to the cabinet as he tried to parse it out, and Shane shrugged. “Coffee is a blessing from the angels. Manna from heaven.”

“And those bags are bigger than my fuckin’ head. Just for us.”

“Oh. ...I don’t really drink it.” Brent almost mumbled.

The shipmaster walked them through making a few easy meals, quick breads with sausage, biscuits with sparse daubs of honey. 

“There’s vegetables in the garden you’ll be tending. The fresh meat will last you awhile, and then there’s dried after that. Dried milk after you go through the fresh. Everything has their expiry dates and their steps.”

“Now we’re gonna be gardening, too?” Ryan said, nearly petulant, but Brent smiled, peering through the window at the little garden by their back door. Parts of it were already blooming, greenery speckled with leftover rain.

“How neat.” Brent said softly, and Shane gave him a pleased look. At least someone had some enthusiasm-- they’d signed up for this, after all. Brent returned a flustered smile with a shrug as way of explanation, “I lived in this little apartment before- never had the opportunity to do anything like this.”

Their meal was just about finished, but the shipmaster didn’t stay for dinner. It was quickly growing dark, the seas already choppy. With a stiff farewell and a loud creak of the door behind him, he left the three of them alone for the first time. 

Alone, for a year.

Shane pushed the heavy wooden shutters aside and peered out their narrow kitchen window to watch the man’s pale figure cut a line across the grass, before disappearing out of his view down the steps. Then, he turned to the others.

“So. What now?” He said with a wry curl of his lips.

Ryan opened the oven, the old metal door clanging loud and shrill, and pulled out the roasted meat. He swung over to the table to set it down with a flourish.

“Now, we eat!”

It did look delicious, Shane had to admit. They’d already found out all three of them put together still had pretty much zero experience in the kitchen, but maybe that wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe they could learn together.

Shane took a seat in one of the rickety wooden chairs-- that he noticed were also handmade, with little wooden pegs instead of nails. How neat. They squeaked when he shifted, but it was still somehow better put together than anything he’d ever owned. Maybe he could learn a few things on the island as well, while they were here. Things could be okay. Things could be good, even.

“Now, I’m okay with small talk,” Shane said promptly, “but only the smallest of small talks.”

Brent furrowed his brows, but Ryan seemed to be figuring out his odd sense of humor quickly enough, pointing a fork at him. 

“Nope-- too late for that, buster. You had your chance. We coulda been talking about the weather this whole time, but nope-”

“And our favorite sports teams?” Not that Shane had any, but Ryan lit up.

“Hell yeah, that too! I-”

Ryan was interrupted by something shifting behind him, the coffee cups and silverware hanging from the cupboards rattling in a shiver of ceramic, clanking against one another. Ryan jumped.

“Motherfucker!”

Goosebumps prickled along Shane’s skin and he felt a cold breeze across the back of his neck, turning his gaze to the open window. Looked like the rain was going to pick right back up again. Maybe even another storm tonight.

Ryan was stiff-shouldered in his seat, a frown pressed his lips into a flat line. Shane raised a brow. 

“Jumpy much?” He teased, even as he walked over to shut the window. It stuck a little and he had to pull, metal screeching when he finally got it down. Silence fell in their small kitchen. Ryan had a middle finger raised and waiting for him when he turned back, but there was a glitter in his dark eyes that said he did that a lot and didn’t mean much by it, so Shane just flipped him off right back. Ryan laughed.

It was getting a little too dark to see well, so Shane went to fiddle with the lanterns. He’d never used an old one like this before, but it was easy enough to figure out with a little tweaking, and warm light soon flooded their small kitchen, illuminating Ryan and Brent’s faces softly. A few moment’s searching found a metal hook above the table that seemed as likely a spot as any for it.

Taking his seat back with the others, they poked at their candlelit dinner in the almost awkward silence of strangers. Like a three-way blind date.

Shane opened his mouth to try and fill the silence with something inane, but Ryan beat him to it.

“So.” Ryan said, “Your wife really cool with you leaving for a whole fuckin year? The pay ain’t that good, man.”

And Shane knew the question was coming but it still stung, settling neatly in his gut like a curl of poison. He shrugged. 

“Yeah.” He said softly, and something must have shown in his eyes or in the tone of his voice or something, because both of them looked at him with the same goddamn expression; pity or something else he certainly didn’t fucking want. The table fell silent, and this time it was definitely awkward.

A part in the clouds outside spilled moonlight over the fields like liquid, and Shane turned to watch that instead. Rain in the distance rolled closer, wind rattling the panes.

“So. There’s a lot to do here. Feeling kinda overwhelmed with it all, really. How’re we breaking all this down?” Shane said softly. The other two seemed happy for the subject change, latching onto it with relief, and the rest of the dinner was all business.

There was no dishwasher, just an old-fashioned pump faucet over a steel tub, and they’d all collectively decided dishes were tomorrow’s problem, leaving them in the sink. It was early, but Shane was already exhausted. They’d decided Ryan would get first shift for the lighthouse, he was jittery and not ready for sleep. Shane was.

“...We all settled up on who gets which room?” He asked and the other two shrugged, no one objecting. “Cool. I’m gonna turn in, then.”

Taking his lead for now, apparently, they all shuffled down the narrow hall toward their rooms, Brent to sleep, Ryan to get a thicker sweater. Shane swung open his door and stepped through the frame--

\--only to have something cold smack right into his face, his neck, clinging to bare skin in sticky strands. It slicked wetly across his skin before he could slap it off. He yelped, something high-pitched in his throat, and went skittering backwards into the hall. He collided hard with something warm-- Ryan. Ryan was in the hall with him, shouting. 

“The _fuck_ \--!” Ryan hissed, slapping at his shoulders, his neck, his face, expression twisted in panicked disgust. Shane wiped his hand against his neck, trying to see whatever it was. It burned, just a little, against the skin of his cheeks. He wiped his palm against his cheek and pulled it back to examine. His palm was wet, but there was nothing else to answer for.

Brent, too- off to Shane’s left, he was rubbing his forearm hard against his face.

Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it’d hit, leaving Shane blinking and looking around in stunned disbelief. The other two had clearly gone through the same thing, Brent wide-eyed and Ryan with a snarl on his lips.

“The hell was that!?” Ryan said for all of them.

Shane frowned and peered into his doorframe. There in the corners, he could see remnants of silver shredded thread- oh, spiderwebs? They looked odd, thicker than usual and faintly glowing in the moonlight, looking almost fuzzy with collected mist. He furrowed his brows and gave a single disbelieving laugh.

“Daddy Long Legs left us some welcome banners, looks like.” He said.

Ryan gave the door frame a dirty look, swiping at it. He made a face as it stuck to his fingers and wiped it on his jeans.

“Why the fuck is it wet?”

“Yeah. Stung a little too, where it touched me. That’s weird, right?” Brent rubbed at his cheek.

Shane thought they must have been imagining the sting of it. Something about cold on hot skin, a shock to the system. “Looks like it was probably gathering condensation,” Shane said thoughtfully. “Open windows, dew in the air. Makes sense.”

“It was gross as hell. Fuck this place, man.” Ryan said, tense.

“Well, first day down, three hundred sixty-four left to go.” Shane said with a false chipper note. Ryan obviously resisted the urge to roll his eyes; Shane was proud of him.

“Good night, Shane.” Ryan said, and then quieter, “You too, Brent.”

Brent straightened up a little, smiling at them both, “Uh, yeah, you too. I’ll see you at shift-change.”

Ryan disappeared into his room and Shane turned back. He frowned at the doorway, reaching out to touch the frame. The thing was, he’d stepped into his room earlier- so why were the webs only waiting for him now? He’d been carrying his things, maybe he was ducking lower with the weight...

Ah, it didn’t matter.

The running water was in a single bathroom they shared down at the end of the hall, but each of their dressers had a pitcher and bowl, and Shane used the surprisingly cold water to wash his face, brush his teeth. He was too tired to fight over the bathroom; he’d just shower in the morning.

Crawling into bed immediately proved his earlier theory correct- it was much too short for him. He drew his knees up, and the bed protested his weight with a loud creak. It’d better fucking hold up another year.

He dragged the worn wool blanket up to his neck, and closed his eyes. It was cold, the rain turned storm again drumming against his window. Half asleep, he could hear the wooden building expanding with the damp, creaking and shifting like a living, breathing creature. It was almost soothing.

Later, he heard what he thought were footsteps in the hallway, back and forth, but he didn’t think anything of it. It was Ryan, or Brent, or the building rattling its lovely bones.

Still, he didn’t sleep well. Not for that first night, or for a long time thereafter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter wasn't too slow, lots of things to set up.  
> (btw I'm personally not imagining Shane's wife as Sara in this, bc I feel like writing this, it's like...bad luck or something. Just gonna try and not name her at all.)


	2. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello Folks!
> 
> Sorry this took so long, I got bronchitis and have been sick for a good solid month. And general real-life things going wrong- a move, car stuff etc etc -_- These last couple months have been a ride, for sure.  
> But I think I'm back on track. And this chapter is literally almost three times longer than any other chapter I've written, so just pretend it's a few chapters at once?
> 
> In general I'm curious about your guy's opinion- would you like large updates like this, where it's all 3 POVs in one, spanning the whole month? Or would you like quicker updates, with 1 POV at a time, labeled something like "April- Ryan, April-Brent" Lemme know in the comments :)

**BRENT**

Weeks passed in an April haze of rain and fog. Their routines slotted together neatly by now. They broke their shifts at the lighthouse into rotating cycles: one stayed up late to tend ‘til midnight, another woke up early to relieve him, and the third had a night off. 

The lighthouse only really needed to be checked on every couple of hours-- so on colder nights they watched from the window of their kitchen instead, making the walk out and up the stairs to refill the oils and trim the wicks multiple times rather than just staying at their post in the cupola of the lighthouse. The light was a bright rotation through their windows; they would immediately know if something was amiss.

Everything had become a routine, and Brent kind of liked it.

Every morning, just before dawn, they each emerged from their respective hideaways, tugging on yellow plastic raincoats and waterproof boots to trudge in a little line down the muddy flooded path across the island to the small, salt-crusted shed that served as their office. 

The lighthouse was at the sharpest edge of the island, where the cliffs gave way to ocean; a jagged battalion of rocks scattered like abandoned weapons between land and waves. But their little hut of a workstation was near the highest point, sitting atop a much gentler slope. It’s there they measured the waves, the weather, the humidity in the air, and recorded it all into an ancient computer, all blocky green letters on a black screen. When needed, they would check in with the district inspector via satelite phone-- a young man who was far too chipper for Ryan’s sanity that early in the morning. Shane usually did the talking.

On this particular morning, Brent waited to be needed. He stared out the hut’s little port window, watching rain slide down glass panes while Shane and Ryan bickered playfully behind him. He’d found they were starting to do that a lot, the weeks they’d spent together settling their relationships into routine as much as anything else.

He didn’t detect malice, so that was good. It would’ve been a different problem altogether if they didn’t get along. Maybe it was more that they got along too well, in-jokes blossoming between them as fast as the April flowers were scattering along their little island.

As it was now, they mostly just made him tired. Especially on these early mornings-- dawn light not even past the horizon yet, lantern light contrasting oddly with screen light as Shane typed in the information they’d been collecting.

Ryan wasn’t a morning person. The man slumped in the chair next to him with a snarl on his lips, hair tousled from when he’d thrown back his hood. Brent had missed most of their conversation so far, but bits and pieces wandered through his mental periphery as he sat and wished the endless drizzle away.

“...M’just saying, I don’t think all three of us are needed for this morning bullshit. It’s all number-crunching. We could take turns,” Ryan said. Brent heard him kick the heel of his boot against the pine floor, scraping mud off.

Shane shrugged, absently typing away. “But I love your company in the mornings!” he said, chipper. It could’ve sounded more sarcastic; probably, it should have. “Brent, buddy, wave height?” 

Brent peered through the window, hoping he could make out the landmarks from here rather than going outside. He knew that wouldn’t be the case before he’d even finished the thought; the drizzle had brought morning fog, and to calculate the wave height he needed to be able to see their landmark rocks, the ones they already knew the measurements of.

He sighed, flicked his hood up, and went outside. It wasn’t raining as hard as it could have been; just a stubborn drizzle that soaked into his bones as he made his way to the highest part of the hill. He passed the small stone structure they’d taken to calling the chapel, if only because the idea creeped out superstitious Ryan and it amused the other two to team up for that sort of thing. Either way, it wasn’t anything recognizable anymore, a cairn long abandoned, and Brent passed it with a whistle, walking until he could peer over the cliffs in the distance, sighting the familiar landmarks and averaging out how high the waves crashed against them on water-resistant paper with water-resistant lead.

From here, he could even see the apiaries on the other side of the hill- one man-made, the other natural, built into moss and rock. The bees themselves were nowhere to be seen, hiding away from the wet. He’d found them the first day here, but everyday after that had been rain, and so there wasn’t much studying to be done.

Soon, though. And if the previous keepers hadn’t cared much about the upkeep, there was probably a good amount of honey in there as well.

Brent trudged back down into the cottage, only to find Ryan giggling hysterically over... something. He was hunched over, but even in that position Brent could see his eyes watering. His laughter was high-pitched, almost a giggle of joy.

Brent smiled, “What’d I miss?”

“Ryan’s an idiot.” Shane responded with a simple shrug, flat-toned. Brent hadn’t really seen him laugh, not yet, but there was a distinct smile on his lips that was new, and it was odd to see that contrast. It softened the lines of his face, made him look more his age.

“Accurate,” Brent said. “Any particular reason?”

“Nah, just… hell, how did this all go again?” Shane looked sidelong to Ryan.

Ryna grinned, “You got me. Pretty sure you started it with your ‘fish shit’ comment-”

“No, because you had that whole diatribe about mermaids- how? You can’t know a whole diatribe worth of mermaid facts, Ryan. You know why? Because they don’t fuckin’ exist-”

“He’s right, you know.” Brent interrupted. They could backtrack for minutes, and it still wouldn’t mean anything to him. He’d missed the moment; jokes worked like that sometimes. Had to be there, and all that. He’d let it slide.

He gave Shane the wave measurements and Shane dutifully typed them all in, expression smoothing back into his usual mask. But Brent had seen past it for the first time, so it could happen again. There was something immeasurably sad about Shane, and he was sure it had something to do with that ring on his finger.

“Okay boys, we’re good here.” Shane said, standing up and placing his hands on the desk. He was gangly and endlessly tall, the shed built too small for the likes of him, and his first instinct seemed to be to bend.

They stepped out just as the sun truly called out dawn, golden light spilling over the mounds of grass. Brent looked up- the clouds were patchy, drizzles of rain here and there, but maybe the bad weather would finally break this afternoon.

Back inside their kitchen, they had breakfast, Shane cooking eggs gathered from the chickens still napping in their coop outside, Brent slicing and buttering the last of the bread that had come prepackaged in their pantry. They’d have to make their own, after this.

And Ryan made the coffee with an ancient french press, dutifully measuring even half-asleep and lovingly pouring each cup. Even one for Brent-- who was still getting used to the taste of black coffee, but didn’t want to be left out of Ryan’s unceremonious little ritual.

They had a routine even for these quiet moments, and Brent liked it. Mealtime was his favorite. After they’d finished their work, but before they each wandered off to do their own thing in the downtime of the afternoons. He liked the kitchen table, large handcut-- oak, maybe? He was never very good about telling those things. And he liked how there was something strangely sweet about the way they settled around it, like they were some kind of family-- the world’s weirdest roommates at the edge of the world.

Shane offered him a plate of eggs, and Brent gave him a warm smile that Shane almost fully returned, just a little worn at the edges. Taking the press, Shane poured another cup of coffee for Ryan, as he’d already finished his first and was now nodding off a little, curled in his chair. He startled when Shane brushed a hand gently along his shoulder to wake him, Ryan giving him a quick grimace of a smile before scraping a hand through his bedhead and straightening back up in his seat.

Brent leaned forward, thumbs brushing the hot ceramic of his coffee cup. He tried not to stare at the circles under Ryan’s eyes.

“...You’ll get used to the odd hours, I promise.” Brent said to him, softly.

And then, without thinking, he reached out to brush his hand through Ryan’s hair, patting the wayward tousles back down for half a second before Ryan jerked away.

Brent’s expression tightened. Whoops.

“Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean-” He started, but Ryan shut him down with a look.

“Not sure where both of you got the impression I liked to be touched,” Ryan grumbled, reaching for his coffee.

It seemed to be a generic rebuttal to both of them; Shane shrugged it off with an apology comfortably enough, so Brent stumbled one after him. Ryan’s irritation didn’t seem aimed at just Brent. So. 

Brent lifted his mug to his lips, sipped at the bitter coffee, and tried hard to like it.

...

After breakfast came all the mid-morning chores- they usually lasted until afternoon, but as Brent stood outside in his raincoat feeding the chickens, he looked up to see that the drizzle of rain had faded, bright afternoon sky dazzled through with sunshine bright as crystal. He could feel it on his cheeks, warm enough that it seemed like it might stick around for a little while. 

He whooped aloud, running back inside to see the other two already opening up the doors and windows, letting the dry breeze air out their home. He ran past them to gather his suit, laptop, nets and notebooks, and then back outside. He’d been here a month now, and there was research to get started.

He’d spotted a bee or two lazily swooping through the air, seeking out the marigolds. He loved them already, his _Apoidea Insulalis._ They were chubby things, more black than yellow, the black so shiny it was blue when the light hit it. He was delighted to see they were actually here; they hadn’t been spotted since the late 1800s, and were considered extinct or even possibly nonexistent-- possibly an earlier confusion in nomenclature, a naturalist’s figment scribbled in journals, nothing more. 

According to the slim entries devoted to them he’d found, they fed along the blossoming kelp, picking up salt from the ocean to give their honey a distinct tang. Brent wasn’t sure what his exact thesis would be, but he was thinking of exploring the possibility of symbiosis; why did they only exist near the sea? How did they change and affect their little seaside habitats?

Brent examined their hive as he tugged on his beekeeping suit. Bees lazily tumbled out of every port and entry, making their way down the island, but they didn’t seem to mind him. He stepped forward to pull up the wooden slats and the nest blossomed open under his fingertips, wax cracking. He gently brushed a thumb over the delicate shells of honeycomb. The nest was full, overfull even, honey slicking down the sides in shades of dark amber gold and odd yet delicate strands of blue.

Somewhere on this island or in the sea nearby, there must be a flower with a deep blue pollen that they seemed to enjoy-- and that was a rabbit trail that already fascinated Brent, too. Honey tasted differently depending on what the bees happened to be feeding off, and the bluish veins were certainly a novelty.

The afternoon sun beat down on him, warm and lovely as he scribbled in his notebook, writing down their flight patterns, their numbers and morphology, anything that might make them stand out as a provable, distinct species. 

He took photos with his cellphone as well, especially before carefully setting up their nest to drain, setting a glass jar on the ground beneath the sieve. Honey began to pour in long, thick ropes, and Brent kneeled down to watch.

A filter collected the wax and debris, and the colors of clean honey mingled together in the jar to something more akin to a cool-toned brown, something more natural. Curiosity piqued, he dipped a finger into the jar and brought it up under his mask to taste it. He blinked in surprise; it was _good_ , an edge of floral and salt he wasn’t used to, and he couldn’t help but take another taste.

He stood and circled around to drain the other side of the nest, but on a particularly marshy step the ground simply gave out from under him, one leg sinking to mid-thigh. He yelped, grabbing onto handfuls of grass like that could save him from falling into the world, heart thudding in his chest.

But he wasn’t anywhere near the cliff. As soon as he remembered that, he repeated it to himself as he took a deep breath, trying to calm the racking in his ribs.

The ground felt wet, soft, one of his boots sunk in deep. Glistening mud dragged at it. He looked down with a frown before tightening his grip on the grass to try and yank it back out, bracing his other boot at the lip of the cave-in for support.

That one sunk in too, all the way up his leg, leaving him buried nearly to the hip in wet, sucking soil.

Something moved against his thigh.

“Oh-h hell-” he shuddered out automatically, a wave of panic rolling through him. His hands scrambled desperately at the soft earth to try and dig himself out before he found out the hard way whatever the hell that was, but his feet just sunk in deeper like quicksand, and now he was up to his shoulders in the earth. However, his grasping palm shoved at the wet soil, and it finally revealed what he was standing in.

The nest went much further… down than he realized. Deep, deep underground, and he was standing right in the middle of it. The movements of the earth around him were buried bees that didn’t really seem to mind his intrusion, lazily swirling around him, crawling down his skin. 

He looked down, all around himself, gaping dumbly for a long moment. It was bigger than any nest he’d ever seen; like they’d carved a whole cave to themselves, walls polished smooth where mud and wax fell away, everything wet and dripping with raw honey. It sparkled in the weak sunlight, almost like it was glowing.

He studied the small, makeshift cave for a foothold, handhold, anything, shifting his balance to try and stay upright before the nest swallowed him further. He belatedly realized his suit must have ripped; he could feel honey dripping in, running down his skin in slow and steady rolls like soap in the shower. Goosebumps shivered down his frame at the sensation, and he swallowed.

Why weren’t they attacking him? Bees could be gentle, but this was definitely an intrusion.

The honey tingled on his bare skin.

His fingers brushed something that looked steady enough for a handhold, and he gripped tight, but went lax when he realized something. The bees swooping over his head... There was a pattern there. They swept to the left, to the right, over one another with a perfectly mathematical precision he could almost calculate. They were faintly glowing, almost like fireflies, even in the pale afternoon light. It was beautiful, and he watched with lips parted as the minutes trickled by, heavy with honey. He’d never seen anything like it.

Honey from the nest above poured into the earth with him, walls dripping. A drop fell onto his helmet, catching in the mesh around his face and sticking to his lips. He licked absently, and the salt-sweetness on his tongue drew back some of the haze.

He took a deep breath, braced his boot against the firmest part of the hole, and started to crawl back out. It took him a try or two, earth damp and slippery under his boots. Adrenaline sparked in his system anew, spiking with each failed attempt, but even so his ascent was slow, sluggish. He told himself he wasn’t in danger. He was still mostly wearing the suit-- quite well even, the honey gluing it to his skin. If the bees hadn’t stung yet, they weren’t going to. And if for some reason he couldn’t get out, the other two would come looking eventually. The island wasn’t that big. They would find him.

Still, he freed himself after a minute of work. He sat on his hands and knees before the gaping maw of the nest, sticky fingers clutching at the ruined grass as he looked down. It was like he’d torn open the world open.

“I’m sorry, little ones.” He said to them softly, but they didn’t seem to mind, lazily swirling around the ripped earth.

The jar of honey was overfull, amber running over the edges in a slow spill. Brent stared at it for a long moment. He felt dizzy. The adrenaline leaving his system, probably. The afternoon light was heavy, sun dipping over the edge of the ocean. It was lovely. He didn’t care.

He could feel honey run down his frame, still. He could taste it on his tongue.

He blinked once, twice, and backed slowly away from the nest, until the bees were little dots of black against the sunset. Only then did he peel the suit from his skin, laying it over his elbow in a sticky mess. He picked up the jar, and walked back to the cottage. 

It was starting to rain again.

 

**SHANE**

Everything slipped into routine, but Shane didn’t mind too much. There was something almost meditative about having your day already all planned out for you- like being in the military, he figured, but without anyone ordering you around.

It was evening, the sun already dipped below the horizon, the last grey light slipping through the kitchen windows. 

Currently, he and Ryan were trying to figure out bread.

It shouldn’t have been complicated. Intellectually, he knew that. Still, it was stressful knowing you only got to eat if you didn’t somehow fuck everything up.

The bread had risen at least, and that had been pretty delightful; peeling back the worn cotton towel and seeing the dough fluffed up three times its size over the course of the day.

He brought the bowl back to Ryan to show off their handiwork with a soft smile, one Ryan returned with a much brighter grin of his own. 

Shane was a little jealous of that grin, of how easily it stretched on his lips, unbidden almost. Ryan’s grin could light up the room— when he cared enough to try. 

Not that Ryan was trying at the moment. Instead, he was sitting on the edge of the table rather than using the goddam chair like an adult, studying the beer bottle he held with a critical purse of his lips.

“They fucked up the beer. It’s too sweet.” 

“You really think we’re going to do any better come our turn?” Shane said, dumping the dough out onto the floured counter. He rolled up his sleeves, slipping off his wedding ring before it was lost in the doughy mass forever. He perched it safely on the window sill above the sink, then shoved his fingers into the blob. It was warm, which he wasn’t expecting, but he supposed it made sense; yeast and chemical reactions and all that.

“Don’t drink all that, it’s gotta last us the whole year.” He said as he worked, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Nah, we’ll just have to move onto the hard liquor.” Ryan said with a laugh.

Shane tried to knead the dough, just going on whatever human collective consciousness he’d picked up on for his technique. It looked right-ish, anyway. He could hear the rain starting up again, a light patter against the tin window awning. There was something soothing about it. He didn’t mind the rain— even as a scowl crossed Ryan’s lips. 

“Fuck. I thought we were finally done with this godawful weather.”

In the short time they’d been together, Shane was already beginning to find out that Ryan was all energy, made more restless by the rain— not that being cooped up in the house was doing any of them favors. Ryan kicked his feet.

“You don’t seem like you like much of anything about this place, Ryan. Having regrets?” Shane asked idly, eyes on the mess seeping through his fingers. It was fascinating. He should’ve picked up cooking a long time ago. Ryan shrugged, and Shane took it as a go-ahead to continue.

“Why’d you decide to sign up for all this, anyway?” Shane knew he was treading into delicate territory; that if Ryan talked about why he was here, conversational rules dictated that Shane should probably do the same. And he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in that. 

Yet, here he was. Kneading dough in a century-old shack and opening his big mouth again despite himself.

“You miss the city. You seem bored as all get-out. And I feel like I’m starting to get to know you well enough to think that all this- is kind of an odd arrangement for you. So why are you here?”

Ryan paused. Watched him with dark eyes, gears churning away. And then, he shrugged. 

“I wanted to get away.”

“The furthest away we could possibly go,” Shane said. He understood that, at least.

“Yeah, you could say that.” 

Ryan took another drink of his beer, head tilted back as his throat worked the swallow, but his eyes were on Shane.

“...’Think I know why you’re here, so I won’t ask.”

“Thanks,” said Shane. He sunk his hands in the dough, rolling it up and slapping it back onto the counter. It was harder than he thought it was going to be, using muscles in his arms he just plain wasn’t used to using, ones he hadn’t quite realized he owned until they started to burn. But there was also something satisfying about it, about pushing and pulling and putting his whole body into the rhythm. As he worked, he slid a glance at his wedding ring, sitting on the sill.

“...It’s been two years,” he said, softly. Ryan didn’t say anything. So Shane kept going. 

“I don’t believe in signs, signs are bullshit. But of all days, the letter inviting me to apply here arrived on the day of our anniversary, few months back. Seemed like it was maybe time for something new. It’d been two years since she…” 

-eyes on the dough, concentrating, focus on the rhythm and not the words- 

“...and nothing had been changing since then. I was stuck. Still living in our house. On pause.” He was talking to himself almost, but Ryan was probably listening, a dark shadow over Shane’s shoulder.

“Two years is a long time, Shane.” Ryan said after a moment, probably waiting til it seemed like Shane had trailed off for real this time, his voice steady in the quiet between them.

“So. What is it you’re running from, then?” Shane asked, a little sharply. Ryan had certainly been acting like he was escaping from something.

Ryan shrugged, “Lots of things.” He rubbed the back of his neck, took another drink from his beer before responding, “...I have a big family. And they wanted things from me I couldn’t give.” 

His voice was different now, but Shane couldn’t read the tone of it. 

And he didn’t get to continue when they were interrupted by the front door creaking open, Brent and the rain coming in, both equally wet. Brent was sticky with... something, hair slicked, cheeks smeared with mud and something shinier mixed with it. Ryan furrowed his brows.

“The fuck happened to you?”

“I fell in honey.” Brent said, dreamily. He set down a large glass jar of amber liquid on the table beside Ryan.

“Excuse me?” Shane said.

“Are you….alright?” Ryan added, dubiously.

“Oh? Yeah. I’m fine. They didn’t even sting me.”

And Brent wandered off to his room without so much as a goodbye, probably to sleep before his shift. Ryan and Shane exchanged a look.

“Dude’s weird, don’t you think?” Ryan said. He leaned over the glass jar, dipping a finger in and examined the slick roll of honey on his fingertip. 

“Hey, Brent! Weren’t swimmin’ in this honey, right?” he called back down the hall. He sniffed, then licked, then shrugged. “Good, though. We can eat it with the bread whenever it’s finally fucking done. You think it’s gonna be ready soon?”

Shane laughed, leaning into the dough. “How am I supposed to know?”

Ryan slipped over the table to lean over Shane’s shoulder. Shane could smell his cologne, something dark and smoky. What a wasteful thing to pack— no one cared here. 

He kind of liked the scent of it anyway.

Ryan looked at the dough thoughtfully, and then deliberately tipped his beer bottle over it, a splash of beer disappearing into the dough just as Shane rolled it. The beer trickled cold and wet over his fingers and he made a noise of shock, smacking at Ryan’s hand.

“Hey!”

Ryan laughed, “What? It’s all the same, isn’t it? Carbs and the like. Isn’t there such a thing as beer bread?” He was grinning when Shane looked over his shoulder at him. There was something both exasperating and intoxicating about Ryan’s grin, but Shane couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Just for that, you’re gonna fuckin’ finish this. My arms are killing me.” Shane grumbled.

Ryan grinned and nudged Shane out of the way as he rolled up his own sleeves.  
“Course I got this. Have you seen these guns? Outta the way, Straw Man.”

He leaned into the bread and Shane went to the stove to double-check that the gaslight was still on. The oven was the only warm thing in the kitchen and a chill had settled back in with the rain, so he took a moment to appreciate the heat before reaching for the pan to flour, setting it beside Ryan when he was ready for it. 

And with a wipe of sweat off his brow, Shane retrieved a beer of his own, draining half of it immediately. Unlike Ryan, he rather admired the taste. It was oddly sweet, but there was something interesting about that. Uniquely one of kind, because whatever the last group had concocted, the recipe had gone with them. It was a tradition that keepers brew beer as a welcoming gift for the next group coming in. The trio before them had done well— he hoped they would, too.

Ryan was hard at work, kneading firmly, teeth gritted in concentration. He was easily better at it than Shane, Shane could tell already. He had the forearms for it, muscles glinting in the faint light, heavy shadows lending them an impressive definition. Shane watched for a moment, hip against the counter. They hadn’t known each other long, but their silence was already comfortable, and he appreciated that.

“You know, I’m not the expert, but I thought you were supposed be gentle with bread. Firm, loving hands?” Shane teased. Ryan snorted.

“No, you gotta show it who’s boss before it’ll rise. Beat it into submission.” Ryan teased right back, smacking the dough in emphasis. 

Shane smiled. “Guess we already know which one of us is good cop and which one’s bad cop. That’ll probably come in handy.”

“Brent’ll never know what hit him.”

Shane laughed, and Ryan lifted his head to grin, surprised. “That’s the joke that finally gets you to laugh? Threatening Brent? Fuckin’ dark, man.”

Shane snorted, “Hey, I laugh. I’m a delight.” But it was a little true; he’d been quiet since coming here- but it was only a momentary transition, he was sure. He could already feel the tautness in his chest unwinding.

Shane waved a hand, “I think the dough’s done for, stop interrogating it and throw it in the pan.” 

Ryan lifted the whole ball, cursing to himself as it immediately tried to slop through his fingers. He brought everything towards the pan in a panic and Shane shot forward to assist, snatching up the pan to bring it closer to Ryan. They almost collided in the narrow kitchen, but managed to skid to a stop, nearly nose to nose. The dough slopped from Ryan’s fingers and right into the pan.

They both stared in breathless silence. And then started giggling, together.

Shane turned and slid the pan into the oven and they looked eachother over, mission accomplished. Ryan grinned, raising a hand, and Shane dutifully high-fived him. Sitting at the table, they each reached for their beers. The glass bottles clacked in a toast.

“Bet that bread’s gonna be fuckin’ delicious,” Ryan said. 

Shane shook his head a little at Ryan’s tone, so eager, so intense. He had an edge of ‘bro’ to him that Shane wouldn’t have expected, out here. Not that he minded. Everything else had been quiet, as dreary as the rain. Ryan’s energy was a surprisingly refreshing contrast.

“We’re gonna do twice as well for our beer, alright?” Shane said.

“Why? Not like we’re gonna get to enjoy it.”

“Because the ones before us did well.” Shane lifted his bottle in emphasis, finishing it. “Karma, Ryan. Don’t you believe in karma?”

Ryan snorted. “...Nah,” He said flatly, and Shane must have given him a funny look because he shrugged to clarify.

“If karma does exist, she plays favorites. It’s not about who’s good, or who’s bad, it’s just whoever catches her fancy,” he says. “So might as well have some fun.”

“Cheery.” Shane said. But it wasn’t like he could exactly disagree. It almost made a certain amount of sense- though according to Ryan, karma must have really, really fuckin’ hated Shane’s face.

He ran his thumb along the neck of his bottle. It’d probably been his nose. He’d always been self-conscious about his nose.

“You think she prefers blondes, or brunettes?” He asked. Ryan smirked.

“Oh, always dark hair. Tall, dark ‘n’ handsome.”

“You have dark hair.”

“Yup. And karma fuckin’ loves me. Hell, we’re going steady. How else would I be lucky enough to end up here in this godforsaken hellhole?”

“Too wet for hell,” Shane pointed out helpfully.

“True.”

Ryan took another drink from his beer and Shane looked around their small kitchen- Ryan’s tiny hellhole. Shane didn’t think it was so bad. 

Oh! It was his turn to fill out the log. He’d almost forgot. He stood up from his seat and went to the large book, perched on its sturdy old wooden stand near the window.

It was lovely, over a century of scribbled writing. Shane could feel the history breathing under his fingertips. He flipped it open and wrote:

_April 27th. Foggy today. More rain. Always more rain._

_Learned to make bread today. Probably not going to poison ourselves? But if this is the last post, you know the reason why._

“Don’t forget Brent almost fuckin’ murked himself!” Ryan called out. Shane smiled a little.

_Brent fell into a hole of honey and/or bees. Apparently fine? Seemed pleased enough, but then again Brent has a weird obsession with the flora and fauna here.”_

“So weird.” Ryan agreed from over his shoulder and Shane jumped. Ryan was right there, breath on his neck.

“Shit, Ryan!”

“Oh. Did I scare you?” Ryan took a step back. But he was grinning in a malicious way that let Shane know he wasn’t going to forget Shane’s reaction. He was going to be disappointed, though- Shane didn’t scare easy. He just wasn’t used to someone standing so close.

Ryan laughed, taking a step back.The rest of their waiting period was chores; washing the dishes, wiping the flour down from the countertops, Ryan stepping outside to prep the lighthouse before Brent wandered out bleary-eyed from his nap to go out and start his shift. When Ryan came back inside he was dripping wet, the swoop of his dark bangs slicked to his forehead, a drip of water running down the bridge of his nose. Shane was just pulling the bread out of the oven, and Ryan slid over next to him to stand in front of the radiating heat with a shiver.

“Is it good? Did we fuck it up?” 

He sounded almost anxious, peering around Shane’s shoulder, and Shane smiled at him. “Looks like it might be okay. Let’s find out.”

“I thought you were supposed to let it rest or some shit like that?”

“Nah, fuck that.” 

Ryan nearly beamed in response. “Yeah. Fuck that!”

They brought the steaming bread to the table, and Shane cut into it.

“Crust is crusty. Steam is steamy. Bread...fluff... is fluffy.” He narrated as he cut two slices and they slathered them in butter, biting down. They moaned in unison.

“We did good!” Shane said brightly, and Ryan nodded, ripping another hunk from the loaf without bothering with the knife.

“So fuckin’ good. Could win the goddam bread olympics.” Ryan mumbled around his mouthful. He went to the french press to pour himself another cup of now-lukewarm coffee, dragging the mug back to his spot at the table to take a long sip. Shane cupped his chin in his hands to watch him.

“You know, you’d sleep better if you’d stop drinking coffee at night. All those godawful mornings? Pretty sure you’re doing that to yourself.”

Ryan took a slow, deliberate sip, humming in pleasure

“Mmmmmshhhhut the fuck up.” He said, pleasantly. Shane laughed and Ryan straightened up a little in his seat, pleased. “Another laugh? Hot damn, that wasn’t even that funny.”

“I’m happy, alright? Now, quit poking at the moment. It’s skittish.”

Ryan didn’t object any further, and they tore their way through most of the loaf, nicely paired with their too-warm beer and too-cold coffee. Their conversation was punctuated with soft laughter by lantern light while the storm raged outside, rain scratching at the windows, a dull steady roar on the roof.

They only stopped when they realized it was nearing eleven, and the bread was almost gone. 

It was supposed to last them the week. There was nothing left but a crusty heel. 

“Uh. We... saved some for Brent?” Shane said half-heartedly before stretching in his seat, the bones in his back popping. Ryan shrugged, “Yeah, it was just a test loaf. We can totally make more. ...You turning in?”

“Yeah. You should think about doing it too. Gotta be up for your shift in an hour ‘n change.”

Ryan groaned, letting his forehead hit the table with a thunk.

“Don’t remind me.”

Shane smiled. He was pretty sure he’d made a friend. “Have a good night, Ryan.”

“You too.”

It was hardly minutes before Shane was settled into bed, letting the rain lull him like a lullaby, like he had most nights. The creaking of the house and the sounds of footsteps just reminded him that he wasn’t alone anymore.

He slept well. At least, for a little while.

When he fluttered back to consciousness, he wasn’t sure what had woken him. Something had brushed his cheek, maybe? Fuck- did they have rats? He groaned and rolled over onto his back, trying to will his eyes open, the world skipping in fits and starts. His alarm definitely hadn’t gone off yet, it was still dark, and he should be sleeping.

He rolled back over onto his side with a huff, a lock of hair flopping over his face. 

Something delicately tucked it back, fingers gently brushing the back of his ear.

He startled, eyes flying open and for awhile he didn’t react, because it wasn’t real. Couldn’t have been. 

Shane stared up into the darkness. He didn’t see anything when he looked around the room, not really— just shadows of movements, his sheets tangled and twisted tight around his legs. But it was when he’s _wasn’t_ looking that he saw them; movement that looked like hands, slender and delicate. And felt like fingers when they ran over his skin. 

He felt the drag of nails tugging at the collar of his shirt, smoothing at his pant leg, running through his hair. Gentle and methodical, no matter how he twisted in his bed to try and pull away. But when he looked right at them, he only saw smoke, tendrils of nothing.

He was making noises, he knew, long keening moans in his throat, even though somewhere in him he _knew_ this is just a nightmare. 

It's just a nightmare. He's been having them more often than not since coming here, and they were getting stronger each day. A new place that didn’t feel like home, noisy and unsettling. Understandable.

So he wasn’t really surprised when he felt the weight of her settle onto his lap, straddle him, shush him.

“It’s okay, baby,” she said softly, and he looked right at her, but he couldn’t see her face. Her fingers dragged down his chest, slow and steady. Other hands ran down his thighs. A thumb brushed his nose, and he closed his eyes with a breath.

“Wake up.” She murmured, fingers clutching in his hair. And he listened, eyes opening to find himself alone. 

Almost. 

There was a glow in his periphery, near his temple, something too close to focus on. He sat up to brush it away before realizing it was a firefly-- dozens of them, really, floating around his room. He’d left his window open to listen to the rain, and they must have slipped in.

Shooing them out as best he could, he shut the window. He looked around the cold, empty room with a shiver, thinking of the hands on his skin. He could still feel them.

And then he went to the kitchen to retrieve his ring from where he’d forgotten about it on the windowsill.

Guilty dreams, that was all it was.

 

**RYAN**

 

They had a routine, and Ryan was already bored out of his fuckin’ skull. Everyday was the same goddam thing: wake up too fuckin’ early. Work way too fuckin’ hard. Too fuckin’ cold, quiet, wet— the list went on.

Today had been the first day the entire month they’d been here that it _didn’t_ rain for the majority of it, and it’d been amazing. He’d spent his afternoon break laid out on the driest part of the patio he could find, shirt off, soaking up the meager sun.

But now the rain was back yet again, a riotous roar on the rooftop. He hated trying to sleep through noise, and the grossly sweet beer had certainly not given him enough of a buzz to help.

Worse still were the sounds of the house settling; it all sounded alive. Footsteps, scraping and moaning. He’d learned to ignore it as best he could, and mostly, he’d succeeded.

Until tonight that was, middle of the night, when he heard something that sounded like a rap on his door. 

He jumped, staring at the door distrustfully.

“The fuck you want? Brent? Shane?”

Ryan sat up, wrapping the woolen blanket over his shoulders to pull it tight, eyes on the door. No answer. He was just imagining things, probably.

But nope. Because what he heard next was a very deliberate scrape down the wood of his door.

“Fuck you guys,” he said, because it _had_ to be one of them. Because if it wasn’t one of them, it was something... else, and he didn’t want to deal with that. They were on some island in the middle of nowhere. Who could possibly even die here to become a ghost or some shit like that?

That was a dumb question, he realized even as he thought it. There were about a hundred years worth of lightkeepers before him. And any myriad of sailors they might’ve failed. It wasn’t like he knew anything about this place before he hopped aboard that goddamn boat.

He stared at the door a moment longer before huffing and sliding out of bed. His bare feet hit the wood floor, ice-cold, and he shivered. If it was a ghost, interrupting what little sleep he was going to get, he was going to fucking kill it again. 

Blanket still wrapped tight around his shoulders, he stomped over to the door. He listened for another noise, hesitating. And then he threw it open, glaring left, and then right, down their narrow hallway. 

He didn’t see anything, but he heard something again, something in the darkness of their kitchen to his left. He watched for movement, but the only thing he saw was his own breath curling in the air, quickening with the beat of his heart. Even on the few days that were temperate enough, when night fell, the temperature fell with it.

“Brent? Shane?” He whispered. Rain poured down the window panes at the other end of the hall, sheets of water against sheets of glass. Everything was a dull roar, like he was wrapped in his own little world. But Brent and Shane, if they were in the hallway with him, or the kitchen, they would have heard him call out. So what was it?

He watched the darkness of the kitchen, just in time to see something move. A distinct shape of a man about his height- not Shane then, Shane was a tall motherfucker-

Ryan gritted his teeth, “Brent if you’re fucking with me-”

The shadow turned, cocked his head to look over his shoulder at him. 

Ryan couldn’t see his face well, but it didn’t look like Brent. Smaller, darker hair. Ryan scowled, got up his nerve, and darted another foot closer to flick on the hallway light. Weak, dusty light filtered through the narrow hall, illuminating— 

Nothing. The man was gone. 

Despite his better judgement, he took a few steps closer, hovering near Shane’s door, the room closest to the kitchen. 

There were still dark corners in the kitchen; it was a lopsided L-shape and there were shadowed corners a man could hide from Ryan in. But he’d been near the doorway, and Ryan should’ve seen him run when the light flicked on.

You don’t fucking run faster than light.

He heard something that sounded like a muffled moan, and jolted hard enough to thud into the doorframe of Shane’s bedroom.

“Shit!” He whispered breathlessly, just to let out a little of the anxiety building in his chest; the fuck was going on, the fuck was that?

Another moan, a little lower, more drawn out— and then Ryan realized what it was. A real moan. Not a ghost moan, a person moan. ...Coming from Shane’s bedroom. 

Ryan took an automatic step back from his door, relief and embarrassment an odd combination in his chest, but it was better than the adrenaline cocktail he’d been experiencing a moment earlier.

The hell was Shane doing that would make him so loud? Dreaming? It’d better be accidental— the walls were thin as sheets, and Shane should know to keep his trap shut while getting his rocks off.

Ryan was abruptly grateful for their separate bedrooms yet again, cramped spaces or not.

Shane was breathing hard, he could hear it, and the low keening sound that left his room this time gave Ryan pause. Maybe he’d jumped the gun. Maybe it was some kind of nightmare, not a wet dream.

Well, to be fair, maybe it was both. Ryan didn’t judge.

He rubbed his cheeks, feeling the heat of them. He momentarily felt the urge to knock, wake Shane up, stop the noises that were unsettling him so deeply- but then, he’d have to come up with a reason for knocking on his door in the middle of the goddam night.

He raised his fist, hovering it over the door, pressing his lips together at the soft pant he heard just on the other side. He could hear the noises and he scowled when he felt the heat of of them burrow under his own skin, where Shane didn’t belong-

“Ryan?”

Ryan jumped- “Shit!”- and spun to face the voice. Brent, standing in his own doorway, light flooding around his shadowed form. Hair tousled, blanket over his shoulders. Sleepy but concerned.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes.” He snarled, pissed off all the sudden for no good reason. He took a step back from Shane’s door, leaving him to his own weird little wet-nightmare whatever world.

“What are you doing outside Shane’s door?” Brent looked puzzled, but he averted his gaze when Ryan gave him a dirty look. Still, he kept talking.

“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know you were out here. It always sounds like there’s someone out here. It’s so loud.”

Ryan softened a little at the tone of Brent’s voice, the anxious edge of it.

“Sorry. Just… thought I heard something, too.” Ryan muttered.

Brent came over to him, and quietly, without agreeing to it, they both walked the length of the small house. Down the hall, into the kitchen, chasing away the last of the shadows a man could hide in.

Ryan still wasn’t satisfied. Whoever it was could have stepped outside easily while Ryan was distracted by Shane. Or it didn’t have to be human at all; Ryan knew there were other things that lurked in the world. He’d just hoped they wouldn’t be _here_.

He wasn’t sure which would be worse. ...Maybe a person. Because a person would have to have a reason for being here. 

And that reason might be him.

Brent gave him a soft smile, pouring himself a glass of water.

“Guess I’m going back to bed. You should too.”

Ryan gave a distracted nod, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Brent gave him a funny look but gave up, retreating back to his room to close it with a quiet click. Even Shane's room had gone quiet by now. Ryan was alone. Safe. Alone.

He was being ridiculous. No one would have followed him here. Because no one knew what he’d done. He was safe. He was fine. He was at the end of the fuckin’ world, and he was alone.

He went back to bed, and he slept very little.

 

….

 

The next morning the rain was done again, for now at least, and they went through their routine silently. They were all tired, trudging their way through the mud and the dark quiet without comment or complaint.

No one really spoke until breakfast, when Ryan got some hot coffee in him and started feeling like a person again. Brent and Shane were talking about the mechanism for the foghorn, both of them growing in excitement about all its intricate chains. They could have done that for hours, Ryan knew by now; Shane was history teacher from Illinois, and Brent a grad student from the Pacific Northwest somewhere. Ryan interrupted them by laying a hand on the table. 

“Hate to interrupt this nerd-fest, but quick question.”

They both looked at him. Shane cocked an eyebrow.

“Do either of you believe in ghosts?”

He said it seriously enough, he knew he had, but Brent furrowed his brows at him and Shane outright snorted.

“Ghosts? No. Ghosts aren't real.” Shane said.

“Absolutely not.” Brent added.

Ryan sunk in his chair a little bit, a sulk on his lips. “Well fuck you too, then.” He said. 

Brent laughed, sliding out of his chair to go to the sink and dumping his dishes in it. He started scrubbing them down, whistling to himself. 

Shane leaned over the table and studied him for a long moment.

“Why?” He asked, and the tone of it was very, very careful.

Ryan mulled over his potential response. He knew he had to be careful. Shane was stubborn, he knew, and that left him such a small doorway to try and wriggle through to convince him.

“I think there’s something on the island with us.”

“Something? And you think it’s a… ghost.” Shane’s brow was up again. Ryan wanted to reach over and manually shove it back down.

“Or someone, I don’t know. I just get the feeling we’re not alone.”

“Feelings aren't a lot to go on.”

He could tell Shane about the shadow— but without a height, weight, hair and eye color, Shane wasn’t likely to believe him. He needed more proof than that.

“Just… keep an eye out, okay?”

Brent dried his hands off, coming back to the table to ruffle Ryan’s hair.

“Gotcha! Watch for the ghosts.” Brent teased.

Ryan was especially mad at him, because Brent had been by his side last night. Brent had looked over the kitchen with him. Was he just doing that to placate him? Treating him like a kid with monsters under his bed? 

Ryan stood, and went back to his room. He didn’t want to deal with either of them today, even if they were probably right. There probably wasn’t anything here but his own paranoia.

But next week, he’d see the shadow again. Quick glimpses, here and there.

And again, after that.

And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If things feel kinda weird, trust me I know what I'm doing. Mostly.


	3. May

**BRENT**

Brent sat at his laptop, typing away and enjoying the warmth of faint afternoon sunlight, even if it filtered through a crust of salt. Shane had scrubbed the windows just last week, but the salt was already spidering again out from the edges of the panes.

Ryan sat across from him, drinking his coffee and watching him. He could feel it.

Brent’s typing slowed, staggered, until he finally looked up to stare at the other man.

“Whatcha doing?” Ryan said brightly. Brent scoffed and shook his head, but it was affectionate enough.

“Filing reports on the weight and length variation of the bees.” he said. Ryan let his head drop to the table with a groan. 

“Fuck Brent, why did I think it would’ve been something interesting? ‘Writing erotica under my secret penname, Ryan.’ Decoding my orders from Mi6, Ryan.”

“Morphology variation is important.” Brent muttered, mostly to himself. He straightened a little, picking up his pen to point it at Ryan. He knew he had a captive audience. Ryan got bored when spending too much time alone. He would listen.

“The bees, they’ve evolved so oddly here. Highly intelligent. Completely non-aggressive. Even their markings are patterns I’ve never seen before. ...And even besides them- have you seen the birds here?”

Ryan laughed, “Yeah the gulls are so stupid. They don’t bother getting out of the way when you’re walking. I fuckin’ tripped over one once.”

“It’s not like there’s a lot of humans that usually get in their way here.” Brent said, “No species is dumb, they evolve precisely as they're supposed to.”

He paused, and then nodded thoughtfully.

“And right, the gulls too! They’re a distinct species I’ve never seen in person either. I’m pretty sure the gulls are white-billed gulls.”

“So?”

“So, they went extinct a century ago.” Brent said. He pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair, fiddling with his pencil as he thought out loud.

“I think this whole ecosystem is separate, and that shouldn’t be- we’re far from the coasts, true, but not as a bird flies. So why didn’t we see them back on the mainland?”

Ryan shrugged, yawned.

“Maybe they’re there. You look at every bird on the beach before we got here? You just said you ain’t an expert. You coulda missed them.Everyone could’ve. It’s a small town.” Ryan said, and Brent supposed that was the most reasonable thing he’d heard from him yet. Ryan straightened over the table to lay a hand on Brent’s laptop.

”Hey, you got minesweeper on that thing?”

Shane burst through, the flimsy door rattling in his enthusiasm. He was covered in grime, a streak of oil across his nose, and beaming.

“Workshop is clean. The pantry is clean. _Everything_ is clean.”

Ryan raised a brow.

“For now, you mean. Check out the windows,” Ryan said, and it was almost gleeful, watching as Shane turned and despaired.

“... I just did those.” He said, eyes widening, mouth falling into a loose frown. “You know how hard it was to scrape through all those layers of salt? And they’re back- _back_ , Ryan.”

“At least we alternate chores.” Brent said— reasonably, he thought. But Shane only turned his haunted eyes to him instead.

“This isn’t a job where we ever progress forward, have you realized that? It’s all running in place.” 

Brent slid out of the chair to pick up the cleaning rag. He swiped at the gathering salt crystals, but Shane was right, they’d need a scraper to remove them. 

Near the window was something Brent hadn’t noticed before; a long, transparent glass rod, hung by a single string. It was grimy, coated in some dark grey filth— wet dust, mostly likely. Maybe it was meant to be a lightcatcher of some kind?

Shane must have noticed his curious expression, because he came up behind him and tapped on the glass.

“Know what this is?”

Brent shook his head.

“Old folklore. Hang a glass rod in your house and it’ll collect up all that spoo~ooky bad energy for ya.” Shane wiggled his fingers in emphasis.

Ryan groaned, “Oh my god, I’m surrounded by nerds. How the fuck did that happen?”

“Room to talk, Ryan.” Brent said, “Wasn’t it just last night you regaled us with all the finer points of the cinematography in the Robocop trilogy?” 

Ryan gave him something close to a dissatisfied pout, making Brent snort. Shane was still studying the glass rod thoughtfully.

“I’d just cleaned the thing too— it was filthy when we showed up. Looks like it collects the outside weather just as well as anything else, whenever we open up the windows. That, or we got some fucking nasty ghouls here.” Shane laughed, but Ryan had gone tense again.

“...How’s it work? The glass thingie.”

“It doesn’t, Ryan. It just glass, and glass collects dust.”

Ryan gave him a sideways look, and said nothing else on the subject. Mostly. He pivoted to talking about Shane instead.

“Since when do you care about all this supernatural shit?” Ryan stood, coming over to tap at the glass rod. Brent couldn’t read the scrunched expression on his face; it’d faded too fast into something purposefully more calm.

Shane shrugged. “I don’t, not really. I do find history interesting, through. Read about it somewhere. Why are _you_ so interested? It’s just some glorified Medieval Times dream catcher. Could probably even take it down- not like anyone’s here to miss it.”

“And it is just another thing to clean,” Brent added.

“You guys always have to agree on everything, don’t you?” Ryan said. He tapped at the glass column, watching the way the sunlight refracted through it, glimmering through the grime. Picking up the abandoned cleaning cloth, he rubbed it down until it it was crystal clear again. 

Brent watched Ryan’s mind tick, and wondered idly why was he so stuck on it.

“Nah, we’re gonna leave it.” Ryan said, and Brent didn’t care enough about a superstitious stick to argue, either way. Shane didn’t seem to mind, his attention caught on something outside the window.

“...You guys notice it’s been sunny, so far? All day.” He murmured, and Ryan and Brent lit up in unison. He was right, it was even warm- none of them were wearing their usual layers of sweaters and jackets.

“Fuck yeah!” Ryan leaned over the counter to peer out the window, his shoulder brushing against Shane’s momentarily. When he realized what he was doing, he deliberately stepped aside, out of Shane’s personal space.

Brent pursed his lips briefly, smoothing them back out before anyone could see. He’d yet to figure out whether Ryan’s proclivities extended to men, or women, or both, and those particular reactions to Shane could go either way- maybe he was attracted and uncomfortable with the close quarters, or he was very straight and definitely no homo’ing. But Brent knew he was going to drive himself crazy if he tried to overanalyze it now. Wait for more data, that was always the correct way to go.

He looked away, scrubbing a hand through his stubble. He’d stopped shaving it when they came ashore, and it was almost a real beard now, finally growing in soft rather than scratchy. It made him feel older somehow, more respectable.

“So you know what we should do?” Shane said softly, tapping a finger against the polished stone of the counter. He grinned when the other two looked his way.

“We have an afternoon off. It’s sunny. We’re on an island, for goodness sake. How are we not already on the beach? We can bring food, have ourselves a little picnic-”

Brent burned too easily and it still wasn’t _that_ warm, not really, but when he saw how Ryan lit up, the man threading a hand through his dark hair as his gaze darted from the window back to Shane again— he couldn’t bring himself to object.

“Yes.” Ryan said, so firmly and intensely that the other two laughed. He bristled. 

“What? I’ve been stuck inside for _weeks_ , I’m about to crawl outta my skin.” He darted to the corner to grab the toolkit.

“I got one last chores I’ve gotta do, feed the chickens, but you guys get the food ready and I’ll be right there!” Ryan called over his shoulder as he ran out the front door, the door banging open in his hurry. 

Shane rolled his eyes as the door shut. “You notice he left the prepwork for us, just because he’s falling behind on his chores?” He said dryly, and Brent smiled.

Shane’s gaze slid thoughtfully over Brent’s expression, and Brent’s smile shifted awkwardly, then slipped off his face entirely under the scrutiny.

“You like him.” Shane said. It wasn’t a question. 

Brent’s new scruff would never be enough to cover how red he could feel his face getting. He hadn’t been aware it was that damn obvious.

“No, I-”

“Go for it, Brent. Take it from me— life is too fuckin’ short.”

Shane gave a loose-limbed shrug and Brent turned his gaze away, half-hiding whatever it was showing on his face that he couldn’t help. He chuckled, but it even sounded awkward to his ears. He hadn’t wanted this to come up at all; this was just a job to him, he reminded himself. He wasn’t looking for... extracurriculars. 

He tried to smooth out his expression with another laugh, but it was somehow worse than the first.

“No, uh, no offense, Shane, but that’s the dumbest goddamn idea I’ve ever heard. I’m stuck with him for another 8 months. And you’d be stuck with us too.”

“True, that. Whether it goes badly, or way too well,” Shane laughed. He dragged the bread over to the counter to start slicing it up. Shane and Ryan had made it, and it was a little crumbly- overworked, probably- but Brent was still proud of them. Shane slathered slices with peanut butter and jelly while Brent gathered a couple apples, a thermos of water, and a waterproof rucksack to keep it all in, working in mostly comfortable silence.

They were finished just as Ryan bolted back in, breathing hard, a flush to his cheeks. Brent felt that damnable smile growing unbidden on his lips again. Ryan’s energy was infectious.

“Done! Let’s go, let’s go!” Ryan said. He took the picnic bag from Brent’s hands and rushed back outside, the other two following with matches shades of bemused.

Brent counted down each the two hundred and seventeen steps, half in curiosity- it had felt like forever the first time they’d climbed them- and half to distract himself from Ryan’s humming so he wouldn’t accidentally find himself humming along. He watched Ryan’s head bob as the other man nearly skipped down the stairs, eyes clearly on the beach laid out ahead of them.

“Ryan, you’re gonna break your head open if you’re not careful,” Shane said, taking up the rear. He wasn’t wrong; the rain may have been over for now, but the steps were still wet, still slippery. Ryan lifted his hand to flip him off over his shoulder without looking back.

The steps faded to sand and Ryan whooped, burst into a run, boots kicking up sand as made his way across the thin strip of grayed sand.

“It’s a fucking beautiful day!” Ryan yelled out, letting his voice carry over the waves. He kicked off his boots, wriggling his toes in the sand as Shane laid out the blanket. Brent weighted down the corners with a few polished stones, and drew the thermos from the bag.

But Ryan didn’t look like he was ready to eat, staring out over the waves, the sun gleaming off the greens and blues. Brent watched the way his dark hair tousled over his forehead in the salt breeze. He blinked, then smiled when Ryan looked back their way.

“We have the afternoon off. It’s hot as sin out. I know exactly what we’re doing.”

Ryan gave a grin, and Brent was afraid he knew exactly what he was thinking by the wicked glint in his dark eyes. Ryan stripped off his shirt, tanned skin gleaming in the sunlight as he raced across the sand. His hands went for his belt and- yeah, this was definitely what Brent had feared.

“It’s too cold to swim!” Brent called after him. Shane laughed, “And we’re too fuckin’ old to go skinny-dipping, Bergara!”

“What? I can’t fuckin’ hear you- catch up!” Ryan yelled back to them sing-song, voice carrying easily on the wind. He shimmied easily out of his jeans, and Brent cast his gaze aside. That was Ryan, most decidedly naked, leaving his clothes in a messy trail in the sand. Brent tried to catch Shane’s gaze, looking for mutual camaraderie about how crazy Ryan was being. It was too cold, they hadn’t known each other that long, they— but Shane was looking out towards Ryan, a grin sprouting on his face. He shot off after him, a lanky mess of limbs, leaving Brent standing alone and barefoot in the sand.

And there went Shane’s clothes.

“Oh, my fucking lord, really?” Brent said softly under his breath. He watched Shane run a moment longer. A few bruises stood out purple amongst the freckles on his back. Brent had some bruises himself, the manual labor had been hard on them all, but they were particularly stark on Shane’s pale skin.

Huffing softly, Brent stood and drew his shirt up over his head. The wind was slightly too chilly, hairs standing up on his arms. He crossed his arms over his chest.

His gaze snapped up automatically at Ryan’s shriek, but it was only that he’d finally hit the waves, and it was apparently still way too cold, of course.

“Oh my fuckin’- cold, cold, ice on my balls-”

Ryan tried to retreat back to the shore, but Shane shoved at him, both of them tumbling back under the surf. They broke the surface again together with a gasp.

“Motherfucker-” Ryan hissed.

“I was helping. No use dragging these things out, Ryan.” Shane said, running a hand through his hair to push it back. “Brent, get your ass out here.”

They both looked his way, Brent’s hand paused on the fly of his jeans. Dammit, if he’d only undressed faster, while they were under the waves— now, he had an audience.

“Hell yeah Brent, get it- woo hoo!” Shane catcalled, cupping his hands over his mouth to make damn sure his words carried.

“C’mon Brent, what are ya, a chicken?” Ryan flapped his arms and squawked, and Brent rolled his eyes at the cliche.

“Tallest goddamn chicken I’ve ever seen.” Shane deadpanned.

Brent slipped out of his clothes as quickly as possible, streaking for the water. He swallowed a yelp as the chill of the waves slapped him.He’d never done this before, even though his university was right on the edge of the ocean, and they’d all been working on their marine ecology doctorates. Science nerds, studying the sea too hard to experience it.

He must have been red-cheeked again when he swam up to the others, because Ryan laughed when he saw his face. 

“What are you so embarrassed about? Haven’t you done this before?”

“No,” Brent said. “You have, I take it?”

Ryan shrugged, “I've done just about everything.”

Shane laughed, shoving at Ryan’s arm. “Oh, big fancy man, traveled the world and saw everything. Jaded, at such a young age. Tragic.”

Ryan kicked the water to get away from him, going a little deeper into the surf. He paused and made a face. And then he shrieked, flailing in the water.

“Shark!”

Shane’s brows raised right up. “Really? What’d it feel like? Was it a tug? That’s how they test out what they wanna eat, you know.”

“No, just something slimy against my leg— ” Ryan eyes widened comically, teasing this time, “Giant squid!?”

Shane laughed, “Seaweed.”

“Cthulu!” Ryan insisted, louder.

Brent took in a deep breath and dove under. He opened his eyes halfway, ignoring the burn of the salt to look around. He could see seashells glimmering in the sand, sunlight refracting and glinting, abalone and starfish perched in the rock formations. Holy hell, was it beautiful.

And Shane was right; large swathes of seaweed swayed in the current with them, strands of it brushing against Ryan’s thigh again, the man kicking and getting tangled up in it instead. Brent swam back up and gave them both a matter-of-fact smile.

“Seaweed.”

“ _Seaweed_ ,” Ryan playfully mocked back. He reached underwater to grip a handful of it, and threw it in Shane’s direction with a wet slap. Shane gurgled and let himself fall back into the waves, one last hand sinking down in defeat dramatically. Ryan gave his sunken form a wicked grin and then spun in the water to face Brent, who was laughing at them both.

“And _you_ — ”

“What did I do? I’m just the detective, solving the mystery— ah!” Brent shrieked as Ryan tackled him, both of them collapsing underwater together. Ryan was warm against him, hands shoving at Brent’s bare skin.

The broke the surface together, Ryan behind him, Brent’s vision blurry without his glasses. The salt dripped from his lashes. 

Ryan’s hands laid upon his shoulders, pushing down, just a little.

“Bet I could drown you.” He said softly, right behind him, breath warm on his ear. Brent shivered, goosebumps prickling on his skin and he automatically curled forward, in. Ryan laughed and let go before he could find a verbal response.

Brent gave Ryan a lingering sidelong look. He wasn’t sure how to take that, but Ryan was already swimming away to tackle Shane. Brent watched them wrestle in the water, hands all over each other, trying to shove one another under.

They both dipped under the water together and disappeared. Brent saw a kicking leg- Shane’s, the man was much paler than Ryan. When they broke surface they were skin to skin, until Shane caught Brent’s eye.

“This place is amazing, have I said that yet?” Shane said, breaking from Ryan’s grip. “I’m fairly sure I saw an otter the other day. An otter.”

Brent gestured down at the surface, “And there’s abalone down there, too. I saw it. Never seen them outside of tanks before, but if we collect some of them, I think I know how to cook them.”

“We eat like kings!” Shane crowed.

“What we should be doing is eating right now, I’m hungry.” Ryan said. He kicked his legs back towards the shore, stumbling in the sand as the waves spit him out at an awkward angle, catching his feet.

Brent let himself look, just for a moment, at the handsome angles and lines of his back, tan skin already a shade darker just from this single afternoon in the sun (or maybe Brent had just never seen this much of him before), looking away before he could be caught. He wished he could be as comfortable as Shane- the wedding ring a shield against impropriety. He’d been married to a girl. Shane was straight. He could look as casually as he wanted, because it obviously didn’t mean anything to him.

Ryan stumbled, and Brent heard him cry out. He caught his balance before crashing into the sand, but he was keeping one foot lifted and Brent saw crimson dripping even as Ryan cussed and hopped.

Shane and Brent rushed forward in unison, and Brent soon saw the problem. There was a shattered shard of shell caught in the arch of Ryan foot. Blood dripped sluggishly around it, staining the soft pink shell a sharper red.

“Oh fuck, it’s still fuckin’ in there—” Ryan said, voice a panicked high.

“Sh, sh. We got you.” Shane was already stepping forward to collect him.

Brent stumbled after, all of them clustering up close.

 

**SHANE**

Ryan had certainly done a doozy on himself. Shane was trying not to worry, but it wasn’t like they had an emergency room to hustle him to. Even the first aid kit was all the way back up those damn steps. It was entirely possible they hadn’t thought this whole excursion through.

Ryan was making noises to himself, and Shane responded automatically, reassuring.

“Sh, sh. We got you.” 

But it was a distracted murmur, already going into problem-solving mode. The shell was still in there— from anything he could remember, they probably shouldn’t pull it out until they were sure he could elevate it, staunch the bleeding properly.

Speaking of which— 

Shane picked up his shirt, grabbing both ends to try and tear it into strips, and then when that failed, digging his teeth into it. That didn’t work so well, either.

Brent stepped forward with his own shirt, folding it over and kneeling in front of Ryan to just wrap the whole thing loosely around Ryan’s foot, knotting it. 

Ryan hissed as it jostled the shell loose, pearlescent fragment dropping to the ground to glimmer red in the sand. Brent pursed his lips at the sight, and knotted the shirt tighter as blood stained his fingertips. 

“Yeah, that’ll work. Good work, Brent. Now, c’mon, let’s get him back home.”

He wasn’t sure when he had begun to think of this place as home. But now that it’d slipped out, it felt strangely right, so.

Shane nodded slowly, then ducked down to catch Ryan’s arm over his shoulders to help him walk, but Ryan pushed him off.

“Hey! Hey, c’mon, put on some pants first, wouldja? Brent, gimme those goddamn jeans _ow_ — ”

Brent, already gathering a messy armful of their things, picked through ‘til he found Ryan’s pants and held them out skeptically.

“You sure you want to— ”

“Yeah.” Ryan hopped on one foot, trying to muscle through pushing his wounded foot into the denim leg, Shane using a hand on his shoulder to balance him. They worked around each other with ease, somehow.

Ryan got about three inches before giving up with a yelped cuss, the denim stained red. “Okay, okay so maybe— just— look, I can at least get my own fuckin’ underwear on, alright?” He snapped at Shane a little sharply, the taller man lifting both hands in surrender. 

True to his word, he did manage it, though after grabbing his shirt from Brent’s pile and seeing how much sand poured out of it, he threw it back and went without. Brent and Shane both had taken the moment to throw their clothes back on haphazardly, Shane leaving buttons undone and shoving his boxers into his back pocket rather than take the extra time for anything else.

He did accept Shane’s arm after, though, as Shane ducked down again to offer. Ryan was shorter than him by enough that they had to meet in the middle, Ryan’s arm extending as Shane hunched.

Brent had hastily balled everything else up into the blanket, jamming it into the backpack and slinging it over his shoulder, following right after them. He looked anxious, eyes flicking between them both, and the stark trail of red left behind them on the stone steps.

The steps weren’t quite made for two people side by side, but no way was Shane going to have Ryan limp his own way up the steep stairway just to slip and fall in his own damn blood.

Beside him, Ryan wasn’t speaking, teeth gritting, concentrating on his footsteps. Shane could hear him hiss a filthy array of curses under his breath in a rhythmic pattern. He just figured it was probably helping.

Brent was quiet behind them, though now and then as Shane looked back, he caught him staring at them. Shane couldn’t read his muddled expression. Ryan, he was easy to read. Open book, albeit in another language. Brent’s expressions, though, they all lived in the tiny quirks of his eyebrows, and Shane had yet to pick up on the patterns. He looked tense. Terse. Worried? Jealous, maybe? Not that Shane wasn’t going to let him have this one; if Brent had wanted to help Ryan up, he should’ve run faster. No time for petty emotional politics.

Ryan was warm against his side even as the sharp ocean breeze scattered goosebumps against his bare arms. Ryan shivered, and Shane pulled him a little closer.

“Fuck all this,” Ryan hissed. “Fuck this lighthouse, and fuck the dead ocean stink. You ever think this place doesn’t goddamn want us here?”

Shane had never thought anything of the sort; much the opposite, really. It was starting to feel way more like a home than the last two years he’d spent at that shitty apartment without her.

“It’s a building, Ryan. It doesn’t want anything.”

“Yeah, well fuck you too.”

They walked. Near the top, Ryan stared up at the lighthouse.

“...Not us, then. It just doesn’t want _me_.” Ryan said, softly. 

Shane rolled his eyes.

“It’s just a little blood, not a melodrama, Ryan.”

But still, Shane looked back to see the trail of crimson, spattered on each and every step.

They reached the final step and trailed across the narrow path to their house, Brent rushing ahead to open the door for them. Inside, Shane let go and Ryan hobbled to a seat in the kitchen, landing in it heavily. Brent dropped the sandy backpack at the entry, coming over to drape a blanket from the sitting room over Ryan’s shoulders. Ryan tugged it tighter around himself, looking down dully at the blood soaking through the dusty shirt.

“...Think it needs stitches?” He asked.

“Maybe.” Brent said.

“Either of you know anything about that?”

“No, but there’s an fairly in-depth guide in the kit. I’ll figure it out.” Brent reached for the first aid kit, opening it up.

Shane peered over his shoulder as he fixed up the last few buttons on his shirt. The kit was, at the very least, well-stocked. As a teacher, Shane had seen a lot of first-aid kits in his day, but some of the things in there he didn’t even recognize. Luckily, as Brent had said, there was a thick, battered manual inside. Later, he’d go over each and every piece in there, and memorize how to use them. He owed that much to all of them; this was a jarring enough reminder that out here, it was only them. Help was hours and a helicopter ride away if the weather was good enough, and how often was that?

Setting aside the book, Brent withdrew a needle and disinfectant, studying the cut. Furrowing his brows, as if he were making a game plan in his head, he finally nodded.

“Ready?” He said, finally, looking up to meet Ryan’s gaze.

“Fuck no.” Ryan said, but he didn’t pull away.

“Me neither.”

Brent poured disinfectant over the cut and Ryan tensed, hissing low syllables that weren’t even curse words, not anymore. Shane stepped forward, laying a hand softly on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan didn’t reach for him, but he glanced Shane’s way with a soft breath of appreciation.

Brent dipped the thread in disinfectant too, and Shane stood in the background, a hovering , wary shadow.

Brent’s fingers shook for just a moment, right before the needle met skin. 

Visible hesitation. Shane swallowed. If Brent couldn’t do it, he’d have to, and he wasn’t sure he could either. Then, of course, it’d come down to Ryan doing it himself like some whacked-out action hero cliche while he and Brent caught the vapors, so Brent better— 

Luckily for Shane if not either of the others, Brent dipped the needle in and Ryan squirmed in his seat, knocking his other heel against the floorboards, a mantra of ‘fucks’ rolling from his lips as his expression twisted.

Shane pursed his lips, but at least he knew one action movie cliche that’d make Ryan feel better. He ducked into the pantry, pulling an unopened bottle of whiskey from the shelf and unstoppering it. He doesn’t bother with a glass, just handing the bottle off wholesale to Ryan, who grabbed it with greedy fingers and grateful smile, tilting his head back as his throat worked around a full swallow. Then, he held it out to Brent.

“You, too.”

Brent’s brows raised, glancing up and then back down to his work, holding Ryan’s foot steady in his lap.

“You really think that’s a good idea? I think you know this, but I have a needle in you, right now.”

“Might keep your hands from shakin’ so much.” Ryan pointed out, sloshing the bottle to punctuate his tease and Brent rolled his eyes. He did reach for it, though, taking a quick swallow.

Ryan was exaggerating, teasing again, because as Shane watched, he realized that Brent had a surprisingly steady hand. Shane was impressed by the slow, steady, small stitches, Brent squinting in the rapidly dimming light until Shane lit a lantern and brought it over.

Which was right when Shane realized what the dimming light meant; nightfall was coming fast, and none of them were readying the lighthouse. He jumped, nearly knocking over the same lantern he’d just set up and fumbled to steady it.

“Oh hell, the sun’s going down, one of us has to-”

He frowned, as Brent knotted off the stitches intently.

“Go. I got this.” Brent said. Clearly, he could be all business when he needed to be. Shane allowed himself to relax a fraction.Brent was a good coworker, friend even. Really, he had no complaints about either of the men he was stuck here with.

“... Good. Ryan, you two have got this, you’ll be fine.”

He stood, laying a hand on Brent’s back, and then a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, before slipping his feet back into his boots. He nearly even forgot to grab his heavy coat before he was making his way across the grassy paths they’d only partially trampled back down in their daily routines. He’d just made it to the top of the lighthouse as the fading light glimmered orange around him, dusky blue settling heavy in the sky.

The job was harder to do with just one; usually, they worked together in the first set-up of the day, but Shane made do. He put his back into it, polishing the tin plates and setting them into place, trimming the wicks and refilling the oil, and trying to ignore the dampness of his clothes as they stuck to him, sand rough against his skin.

When he finally lit it up and everything started whirring to life, he settled down into the worn wicker chair by the window, their little nest hidden below eye-level of the beam. It wasn’t required that someone be here every minute of the night, but there were a lot of things that could go wrong, especially at first. And Shane liked to watch it to make sure, at least for a little while. It had a lot of little peculiarities to it it, but it was a very old-fashioned lighthouse, probably too far away for any particular town to want to spend money modernizing it.

Really, Shane thought it odd that a lighthouse was this far out at sea in the first place. But wherever there were dangerous rocks, he supposed someone would eventually put a lighthouse in place. He wondered who built this one— how long ago. Details were sparse in the logbooks, but he found those sorts of things fascinating. Knowing there was another man sitting in this exact same wicker chair, watching the exact same light, but a hundred years separated them from one another. He’d read through the logs some on quieter evenings, but there was a lot of repeating news.

Replaced broken window

Swabbed the east rooms

Lost tomatoes to early frost

Every once in awhile, Shane would find the tiny hints of humanity in it, glimpses at the keepers before them. Henry down with flu. Thomas caught a particularly impressive salmon on the line today, we ate well. 

There were always three.

The rule of three was smart; it made sense to Shane. Two was doable, but with no room for error— like now. If it’d just been Shane and Ryan, Ryan would be alone in the house right now. Really, there should’ve been more than three. Or at least one person who actually knew what they were doing, or even just a EMT. Why would they hire all untrained personnel? Just to save a buck?

Shane hoped Ryan’s foot would heal up well, because dealing with an infection out here— that just sounded terrible. They would have to call it in, probably. Wait for the boats to come get him.

The wick smoked out with an oily sigh, and Shane stood. See? There was no rushing things. He knew to wait for stuff like this.

He withdrew his pocket knife to scrape at the ash, blowing it down and out of the way. Soon enough, those ashes would all gather on the steps, leading to the perpetual chore of sweeping them away-- or more plainly, making room for more. He relit the lantern, and blew out the match.

Straightening, he peered out the window, watching the soft glow of their tiny home. He could almost make out Ryan and Brent’s shadows in the windows if he squinted, though were they were smoked over with the unending crusted salt. Leaning against the windowsill as he studied them, he absently twisted the wedding ring on his finger. 

He wondered if they’d still stay in touch, when all this was over. If any of the other lighthouse keepers had, after their yearlong shift. Maybe he’d get lucky and be invited to Brent and Ryan’s wedding, when and if it ever happened. Maybe he’d be their damn best man. That is, if Ryan was even gay. Shane thought maybe there might be interest there, the way he teased Brent so, but it wasn’t like Shane had much practice in the matter. He’d met his wife young, and she’d always been a blunt soul. He hadn’t needed to learn to pick up on flirty cues.

Even if Ryan wasn’t gay, Shane knew history. He’d heard stories of all-male societies, of how… tense situations could get, natural orientation or now. And all three of them, in close quarters, alone when they were used to so many others-- he was already mentally preparing for their potential romance and/or fallout.

 

He was still idly watching the stars, the black empty where he knew the ocean was, and thinking about Ryan when he saw a shadow detach itself from the house, making its way down the moonlit path. Shane squinted, leaned a little forward. Was it Brent? Where was he even going? 

No… Even from here, it was too big to be Brent. Too inhuman, low and lumbering. 

What was it?

His fingers tightened on the sill, torn between racing down the stairs to make sure Brent and Ryan were okay, and wanting to keep an eye on it, heart thudding loud in his ears.

It had turned toward the rocks, which meant it wasn’t headed for the lighthouse, or their house, thank god. Still, something tight settled into Shane’s gut and twisted uncomfortably. Ryan’d been mentioning ghosts, and Ryan was crazy, sure, but-- maybe there was something else.

Shane had thought there weren’t any large predators on the island. Ryan had mentioned bears once, but that just seemed to be some weird phobia of his talking. No bears could make it this far.

But maybe there was something? Something they should lock their doors at night against.

He watched a moment longer, but it’d disappeared down the other side of the island and out of sight.

He was alone.

**RYAN**

For the past hour or so, Ryan had done nothing but lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling, taking swigs from the stolen bottle of whiskey, thumb brushing the smooth glass mouth of it in slow circles.

He kept his lamp on the floor by his bed, rather than the dresser by the door where it had been- he was too lazy to want to get out of bed to turn it off at night, and too uneasy to try and wind down in the dark. He idly watched the way the light spilled under his bed and out again against the far wall, nothing under his bed to block it but a stray boot, and the shadow of it threw large against the white plaster. He followed the lines of shoelace shadows. The world spun.

His foot still throbbed, and he narrowed his eyes at the bandages Brent had wrapped around it. None of them were fuckin’ doctors. None of them were _anything_ useful out here on the rocks-- a teacher, a researcher, and him. So what the fuckin’ hell was he even _doing_ here?

Ryan made his decision right then and there. When the resupply boat came in, he was out of here. A few months away from the mainland would have to be good enough, right? Better than dying alone on some lonely goddamn rock.

He slowly sat up with a cranky noise in his throat, head bowed as he waited for his brain to catch up with his body, a sloshy momentary lapse between the two that wasn’t necessarily unpleasant. At least, not yet.

He heard footsteps outside his door.

His head snapped up, and he gave his doorway a dirty, squinting look. “Fuck you!” He hissed out at it, but there was no answer. Maybe it was a ghost. Or maybe he’d just hurt Brent’s feelings as he walked by on the way to his room. Maybe it didn’t matter.

The footsteps paused outside his door. He glared a moment longer and then stood up, picking up his whiskey bottle before limping over to throw his door open. The hallway was empty, of course, the warm glow of the kitchen telling him Brent hadn’t retired yet.

Ryan hobbled down the hallway to join him. Brent had dragged the armchair over to the corner by the lantern light, settled in warmly. Brent looked up from his book when Ryan entered, and gave him a worried frown that snagged roughly on something in Ryan’s chest. He didn’t need any fucking concern.

“I’m bored, Brent. There’s nothing to do here.” Ryan stated absently, walking over to Brent’s to flick his book to the side, look at the cover. It was an old, pages yellowed, the cowboy on the cover generically handsome, as was his fair maiden, both of them looking dramatically off into the sunset.

“Really?” Ryan said, raising a brow. Brent had the decency to look mildly shamed, laying the book aside, cover face-down.

“It’s not a romance, despite the cover. A western. Louis L’amour. A classic.”

Brent changed the subject, “Ryan, you should really stay off that foot. You’re gonna rip the stitches.”

Ryan gave him a grin, just a little sloppy, but he didn’t care. He raised an single brow, considering Brent’s flustered face. 

...Fuck, why not?

“Should I?” He replied.

And then he slid onto Brent’s lap, letting his arms drape lazily around his neck. Brent was warm against him, warmer than he’d been all day.

“There. Off my feet. Good call, ref.” He said with an easy shrug, smirking at the red flooding high on Brent’s cheeks.

Ryan let his fingertips skim Brent’s pinked face, curving over the arch of his cheekbones, thumb brushing along his lower lip. It was so fuckin’ _soft_. Brent didn’t move, lips parted, eyes a fraction too wide as if he didn’t believe this was happening. 

It reminded Ryan of a skittish woodland creature. And it wasn’t quite what he was looking for.

During their time on the island, Ryan hadn’t been positive Brent was interested in him-- or even in men at all-- but he could guess enough to take the risk. Life was all about risk. And he’d caught how Brent’s eyes had lingered too long on their naked bodies in the surf. Most damningly, Brent wasn’t shoving his ass to the floorboards right now. Not yet, anyway.

And Ryan knew if he didn’t do something to distract himself right now, he was going to scream.

“Well?” Ryan said, “What are you waiting for?”

Brent inhaled sharply, his hands twitching at Ryan’s sides-- but not moving, not yet.

“You’ve been drinking.” He said, hesitantly.

“Not that much.” Ryan said, reaching for the whiskey bottle and sloshing it in front of Brent. It was a third of the way gone… which more than he’d thought before showing it off. But whatever, he could hold his damn alcohol. “Have some. Then we’ll be even.”

He flicked off the lid, tilted it against Brent’s lower lip in offering, and Brent acquiesced with a good swallow and a shudder beneath him.

“You like me?” Brent asked. He sounded like he didn’t believe his own words. Ryan shrugged.

“I like fucking. You don’t?”

And by the way Brent’s expression dimmed, honesty probably wasn’t the right answer. Ryan bit his tongue sharp enough to make himself sort his next words properly before he spoke again. 

Instead of bothering, though, he gave it up and ducked his head to skim his lips against the line of Brent’s throat, feeling his pulse thrum against the sensitive skin of his mouth, and Brent, for his part, tilted his head to allow it.

Ryan shifted a little closer, Brent warm between his thighs.

“Ryan…?” Brent said, and Ryan straightened up.

“Look, I’ve seen the way you look at me. You either wanna do this, or you don’t. I wanna do this. Do you?” Ryan said, stilling against him pointedly.

“Oh. I do- oh god do I-” Ryan could see the decision being made right there on his face, before Brent reached for him with greedy fingers.

Ryan grinned and slid up against him, closing his eyes with a pleased hum. And then, he pressed their lips together.

Brent’s hands stiffened before sliding to the small of Ryan’s back and holding on, shifting and settling under him warmly. He tugged Ryan closer, and Ryan let their hips grind together. There. That was better. 

Ryan wriggled in his lap, half to get comfortable and half to feel Brent jump beneath him, and he was rewarded by the soft sound that left Brent’s throat. Cute. Ryan smirked against Brent’s skin, lifting a hand to lay it on Brent’s chest and flicking open the button of his shirt with his thumb. He bowed his frame to trail his lips down Brent’s throat, flicking across his bared collarbone, tasting the salt of the ocean still lingering on his skin. Brent’s breath caught, and Ryan couldn’t shake a sudden feeling they were being watched.

He looked subtly, head still bowed as he glanced left and then right, and didn’t see Shane back early from prepping the lighthouse. So he closed his eyes again and nipped Brent’s skin, just to feel the other man jump again.

Ryan wasn’t used to fucking guys, not really, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened before. What was the term? ‘Any port in a storm’? Fitting, here-

Brent’s hand caught in his hair and pulled him back up for another kiss and fuck that was hot, that was good-- Ryan rewarded him by pressing back into the kiss, turning it greedy, open-mouthed and wanting. Ryan hummed and his hand slid lower, skimming to Brent’s belly and past to--

They were still being watched. 

He bit Brent’s lower lip with an irritated huff and pulled back to look around the kitchen. Brent blinked, opening his eyes.

“What?” He whispered breathlessly, lips bruised with desire, half-parted as if trying invite Ryan back in. But Ryan didn’t appreciate the image as much as he knew he should’ve, because it was then, over Brent’s shoulder, that he saw the shadow. In the darkest corner of the kitchen, there was a figure of a man. The shadow he saw everywhere, but never with Brent or Shane with him, not before this.

Ryan’s hands tightened on Brent’s shoulders.

“Shane?” He whispered, but he already knew it wasn’t. The frame wasn’t tall enough. Too broad. Brent stiffened under him, sudden panic, and turned to peer over his shoulder. 

It was the same time that the lighthouse beam cycled back around to them, blaring pale light over the kitchen from their window. And the figure disappeared.

It wasn’t like it was never there; Ryan knew it’d been there. It just… wasn’t there anymore.

“Someone was watching us.” Ryan said under his breath, and Brent’s eyes widened.  
“Shane??” Brent whispered, voice twisted low with humiliation. Ryan shook his head quickly. 

“No. Shane wouldn’t hide.”

He tried to slide off Brent’s lap, but he landed on the wrong foot without thinking and pain spiked up his frame. He howled a curse and overbalanced heavily on his good foot. Brent shot to his feet to steady him, hands on his arms.

“It’s okay,” Brent said softly, and Ryan shook his head.

“No. No, it is fuckin’ _not_. There’s something here with us.”

Brent frowned, and to his credit he straightened and looked around the room. “Like what?”

“You really wanna hear me say it out loud?” Ryan hissed, taking a limping backwards step to disentangle himself from Brent’s hands, but Brent didn’t say anything, waiting.

“...A fuckin’ ghost, okay? I see it everywhere.”

Brent didn’t immediately disagree, but both his brows raised, looking around the kitchen again, but more skeptically this time. “...What did it look like?”

“You mean did it look like sheets with all the holes cut out of it?” This was dumb, there was a _reason he’d never tried to talk to either of the two about this--_

“No! I mean did it look like a man, a woman? One of those creepy ghost kids?” Brent tried to smile, but Ryan wasn’t going to return it.

“... A man, I think, but I can’t see him that well-”

The door banged open and both Ryan and Brent jumped, gazes swinging to Shane stomping back in, closing the door and locking it, then testing the lock with a firm jiggle of the handle. His eyes were wide too, and Brent narrowed his gaze at him.

“Don’t tell me you saw it too.”

Shane’s eyes bugged out. “It was _in here_? Fuck-- what was it? What did it look like? It looked far too big to fit through the door but I didn’t want to take any chances, I wanted to warn you guys--”

“Too big? Ryan said--” But Ryan slapped Brent in the chest before he could open his big fat mouth any further.

“What are you talking about, Shane?” Ryan said, calmly enough he hoped.

“I don’t know. I think I might’ve been...I don’t know, imagining things? It looked like a bear or something. Real big.”

Brent’s eyes widened, “There shouldn't be any large animals on the island. How would it have  
gotten here?”

“Exactly--!” Shane said, and they were both giving Ryan a headache.

“Everyone needs to shut the fuck up, right now.” He clutched his hands into his hair, pulled tight until the stinging overwhelmed anything else.

They both pause, look his way.

Ryan wanted to stomp off, but all he can manage is a half-heavy limp and so he makes it count, dragging himself back to his room and slamming the door. There weren’t locks on the bedroom doors, and he narrowed his eyes at the knob. They’d learned quick enough that privacy wasn’t a concept here; sometimes you just pretended you didn’t see anything.

He wasn’t anywhere near ready to lie back down, skin itching up his spine, and he knew sleep wasn’t going to come. The ghost was probably waiting for him to sleep. He didn’t like that it’d changed its M.O. If it’d gotten bold enough to appear in front of Brent, what else could it do?

He limped the short distance across his room and leaned up against his windowsill. Instead of sleeping, he watched the darkness. The moon was full; he could see the whole ocean tonight, moonlight crinkling on the surface, breaking up and reforming.

Back in the kitchen, he knew he couldn’t read the ghost’s face, roiling dark shadows and all that. But there was still something he was reading from it-- like he could feel it’s intention, rolling off it in waves, a nagging feeling Ryan couldn’t shake.

It didn’t want him here.

More than that, it seemed to know why he was here. What he was running from, and what he’d done to escape.

Hell, maybe they all did. 

Maybe Shane and Brent had already figured it out, telegraphed it over the wires, and boats were coming for him right now.

He watched the waves and and his heart tightened in his chest as made out the shapes of boats in the darkness, black on black, sailing resolutely, wood and steel plates sliding silently over the ocean. 

...But all he was seeing was the fog rolling back in, thick, a physical presence sweeping across the water. It came low enough that it didn’t obscure the moon, pale light pouring atop it. One of them would have to go out and turn on the foghorn before going to sleep.

It wouldn’t be Ryan. He was done feeling like he was out in the open, the island watching his every step. He’d given his blood, and it wanted more.

He closed the curtains and went to his bed, remembering too late that it was his turn to fill out the logbook; he didn’t give a shit about it, but Shane did, and Shane was growing on him. Most of the time, anyway. But he didn’t know what he’d write now, anyway. 

It was better he didn’t write anything. The only thing he’d write now would be a vicious scrawl in wet ink.

Fuck everything.


	4. June (Shane)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter got really long, so I cut it in half- Shane in this half, Ryan and Brent in the other, coming soon.

SHANE

For the next couple of weeks, Ryan barely left his room, and the other two didn’t blame him.

They picked up the slack where they could. It wasn’t like Ryan could really walk properly anyway, let alone jam his foot into his workboot, so they certainly didn’t expect him to make his way up all those winding stairs. Not until the stitches healed up.

But it was still a lot of work for just two people, and though the weather had cheered into a balmy June haze, Shane was tired. Too little sleep, and too much work. He’d spent many a night out past sunset trying keep up with the chores and tonight was no different, trudging back into their house to hang his muddy coat up.

Shane honestly loved coming home; stepping into the warm lamplight, the kitchen and entryway small but comfortable. It was a little like he was young again, camping at the family cabin, but trading still lakes and autumn leaves for the crash of waves and the crunch of salt underfoot.

“Shane! About time.” Ryan called out to him from the kitchen, voice ringing cheerily. 

...And Shane had missed that, too. Being greeted when he came through the door.

Shane could feel a smile tugging his lips unbidden as he kicked off his workboots and slid into shoes that wouldn’t track mud into the house. He could heard the other two chattering in the kitchen, just around around the corner. And he could smell something delicious cooking.

The scent turned out to be Ryan pulling a steaming pot pie out of the oven. It was a little lopsided, burnt on the right side, but Ryan was grinning so hard Shane barely noticed the flaws.

“Brent and I sorta guessed at the recipe, so hopefully it’s edible, but look at it!” Ryan said, limping to the table to set it down and give it a big flourish once his hands were free. He’d been looking wan around the edges, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t been sleeping, but it seemed today had been good for him, or at least his mood brightened up his edges.

“And I know it’s about two months too late, but I finally got the fireplace working!” Brent chimed in. That was obvious enough, spots of soot smeared on his cheeks and nose, a fire crackling in the hearth for the first time and filling the kitchen up with a warmth Shane had almost forgotten.

An old-fashioned iron pot hung over the fire, filled with something bubbling. Shane could smell warm cinnamon. He smiled as he passed his gaze between the two of them, both so proud.

“Wouldja just look at my favorite pair of house-hubbies!” Shane teased cheerily. 

“You guys’ll have to let me know how dinner turned out. Save me a piece!” Brent said, “I got the lighthouse up and running earlier, but I wanted to come back and help Ryan with dinner before heading back out-”

“Stay.” Shane said, “You can see through the window that it’s running. And it’ll be another hour or so before anything needs to be trimmed, or reset. Sit. Eat with us. We haven’t had dinner together in weeks.”

Brent hesitated, before giving him a small flustered smile and nod. He sat beside Ryan.

“You’re right. Family dinner is an important ritual.” Brent added, playing into Shane’s bit, and Shane gave him a grin in return.

The food was great- the dough a little uneven here and there, but cooked all the way through. The vegetables were obviously from their garden, bright and crisp, and the chicken-

“From the freezer, right? We’re not missing one?” Shane teased. Ryan gave him a wicked smirk. Shane’s mouth made a little ‘o’ of horror.

“Not Gertie! I love her like a daughter!”

Ryan laughed. They ate with gusto, the best dinner Shane could remember. It’s not quite so simple; he could, technically, think of a few others. Really good ones, even. But it would require thinking back too far, and he didn’t want to do that just now. 

Now was… good.

Shane sighed and leaned back in his chair once his plate was empty, absently tapping his finger against the table.

“You guys are the best. Beautiful, lovely souls. How can I ever repay you?” He said.

“Say you like our apple brandy just as much.” Ryan said.

Shane straightened up in his seat. “Oh, absolutely. That what’s hanging over the fire?”

Ryan watched him with amusement, reflected firelight flickering in dark eyes warmly.

“Yeah!” Brent chimed in, “Brandy cider. Found some cinnamon sticks in the pantry, figured we were almost out of beer already-”

“Wow. Wow! How’d you learn to do all this?” Shane asked. They had a small recipe book on the island, but it didn’t exactly include extras.

“Oh, my sister really likes cooking, and I usually helped her out on holidays.” Brent said.

“...You have a sister?” Shane blinked.

“Yeah. Two, actually.”

Shane paused, mulling that over. That… really seemed like should’ve been something he should’ve known. And looking at Ryan, he realized abruptly that he knew even less of him. He’d been living with them for months now. But he supposed it’d been a lot of joking around, going off on bits or keeping quiet. Not a lot of intimate conversation- or even just normal conversation. Hm. 

He should fix that.

Brent poured the drink into three mugs with a heavy iron ladle, passing them over. Ryan reached for his with greedy fingers, and immediately burned his mouth.

“Fuck!”

“Keep gettin’ hurt and you’re gonna get a reputation,” Shane teased. Ryan scoffed and ignored him, blowing steam off the top and sipping more gingerly the second time around. Shane followed suit.

It was delicious, though the ratio of brandy to apple was clearly off, and by more than a little. Brent coughed, as if to agree with Shane’s thought.

“...Ryan, uh, added a little extra.” Brent explained.

“You guys have been working way too hard. It’s not ‘too much’, it’s _exactly_ the right ratio to deal with this bullshit.” Ryan waggled his bandaged foot in emphasis.

“You haven’t been a bother,” Brent said immediately.

“You’d do the same for either of us.” Shane added.

Ryan made a face, a sideways curl of his lips that hinted he maybe wouldn’t have— at least not as complaint-free as the other two— but it tilted into an awkward smile anyway.

“Hey, all I’m saying is enjoy, alright?” Ryan said, a mutter, curling in on himself and hiding his face behind another sip of his drink, slower this time.

Shane took another sip and leaned back into his seat, listening to the familiar creak of old nails against wood. The fire crackled, and the salt breeze drifted in from the open windows. 

He was comfortable, he felt that. Maybe even happy— and he wasn’t used to that spike of warmth, not without cold, immediate guilt. He didn’t want to think about that too closely, either. He took another drink.

It settled into his gut warmly, and despite dinner he was already beginning to feel it, that warm fuzzy feeling that started in his fingertips and rose on up. It’d been a long time since he’d been buzzed and this was as nice a night as any for it, so he kept going.

“A game.” Shane stated softly, interrupting the other’s two conversation about… movies, maybe? He hadn’t been listening. Brent lifted his head to face him in question, cheeks already flushed.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Shane admitted. “Ryan here, he has a big family, he told me that much but he didn’t tell me details. We’ve been stuck together in a glorified hut four months now, and we don’t know all that much about each other. So let’s fix that. Drinking game.”

The other two looked at him suspiciously, and he pasted on his biggest grin.

“What? Like in college? ‘Never have I ever’ sort of stuff?” Brent said, hesitantly. He obviously didn’t like the idea. Shane didn’t care.

“I was gonna suggest something like two truths and a lie. But you’re right— I like that idea better!”

That one was easier to manipulate anyway, to ask the right question when they were good and primed for it. Shane smiled, leaning forward, and the other two leaned back- whoops, a little too predatory, apparently.

Ryan watched him with narrowed eyes over his mug. The steam curled idly around his face.

“You trying to get me drunk, Madej?”

“No, _Bergara_ , I’m trying to learn things about you.” Shane gave him a pleasant smile, “And your response already said alot, didn’t it?”

“Fine. I’ll go first.” Ryan looked them both over appraisingly, then, “Never have I ever set foot in a college classroom.”

Brent scoffed, “You’re supposed to be trying to learn things about us, Ryan.”

“No, I’m supposed to be trying to _win_. Drink, motherfuckers.”

They both drank.

Brent’s first question was more innocuous; had they ever stolen anything? Shane and Ryan both shrugged and drank, and the game went on innocently enough from there. Shane gathered handfuls of facts as they went; of the three of them, only Ryan had lived in a major city (several, even, though he wouldn’t share with ones), and that both Brent and Ryan had both flirted to get out of a ticket (though Ryan had succeeded, and Brent had not), and that none of them had family they were close to, for their own various reasons. 

And then, Ryan gave a shit-eating grin, toasted to Brent and asked, innocently, if any of them had ever skinny-dipped. He took a drink himself, and even though it was definitely against the rules, the other two booed but drank anyway.

The game only went downhill from there.

The sun was down soon enough; Brent would have to leave to check on the lighthouse any minute. They were all tipsy, that was easy enough to tell. Ryan’s eyes glimmered in the faint light, and he wouldn’t stop giggling, because apparently everything was fucking funny. Brent just looked dazed and comfortable, cupping his chin in his palm.

“Okay, last question, before Brent’s gotta go.” Shane said.

He smiled.

“Never have I ever kissed a guy.”

Brent and Ryan stared. Both of them lifted their mugs, hesitantly, watching him with contrasting expressions that still meant the same thing— it was an ugly cheat of a question he shouldn’t have asked.

Ryan threw back the rest of his drink with a glower. Brent did it more quietly, watching Shane all the while. Shane shrugged.

“What? I was just wondering if you guys got up to anything!”

Brent’s face scrunched with a wince.

“But that doesn’t mean anything, I’ve kissed plenty of boys before Ryan-” Brent protested, sealing the answer. And plenty was also a lie, Brent’s face was an open book.

“Shut the fuck up, Brent-” Ryan hissed.

Brent sighed, raking his hands over his face as he stood.

“I need to stop drinking, I have work to do-” he said.

Ryan snorted, “Not hard work. You’re watching a light. It’s not exactly gonna get away from ya.”

“Those stairs though-”

“Have railings. You’ll live.”

“You know what, I’m good. I gotta go. Have fun, guys.”

“Your turn to fill out the logbook!” Shane reminded him brightly. Brent threw his jacket over his elbow and went to the logbook first, much more agreeably than Ryan ever did. 

“Cleaned out the flue. De-mildewed the shed. Played unfortunate drinking games.” Brent narrated as he wrote.

“Don’t forget, ‘Brent was annoying today!’” Ryan said cheerfully, and Brent flicked the eraser at him as he continued.

“Ryan was annoying today. Shane rebuilt the east path. Shane succeeded in his new quest to try and make us bond like a little nuclear family, we’re very cute-”

“Oh my god. Go, just go-” Ryan cried out, and Brent laughed.

“Yes, dear!” 

And then he was out the door before Ryan could throw out a rebuttal to the pet name.

As soon as the door shut, it was quiet. Ryan lifted his mug to finish it off, hobbling to the fireplace to get more.

Shane tapped his fingers along the shelf, looking at the books. He didn’t actually want to be alone with Ryan. It shifted their dynamic to something he didn’t quite understand— and he didn’t like not understanding things.

He pulled out the most worn book on the shelf, laughing when he saw it was erotica. Dog-eared to shreds. Shane thumbed it open to find it had been written in, the whole inside cover filled with tallymarks. Atop in block lettering it said ‘times read’.

Shane snorted in amusement and put it back. Poor suckers. He refilled his drink as well— why not? And he and Ryan sat together. In quiet. For a little while, anyway. 

“...You really had sex in a cornfield once?” Ryan asked, finally, lifting his mug to his lips.

Well, maybe they’d learned more about him than he thought during the game. Come to think of it, he did vaguely remember some question going by about sex outdoors. Nevertheless, he shrugged.

“But ...why? No, no— better question: how are you still _alive_? Have you never seen a horror movie? What about _alien abductions_ -”

Shane shrugged easily, “Well, I mean... Illinois. Whole lotta cornfields, and a good ol' country style lack of supervision can lead to a lotta things. Also, Ryan, let’s be clear here, you’ve definitely watched too much _X-Files_.”

Their knees knocked under the table. Shane had always been the touchy-feely kind, but something about it felt weird. Maybe because Ryan had been so particular about his personal space, all this time. But now he was only staring off into nothing, leaned back into his chair.

Shane straightened up in his seat, drawing away from him.

“... Brent’s probably lonely.” Shane said, turning his mug in his hands.

“Hey, I’m not sleeping anytime soon. Let’s go to him.”

Shane’s gaze snapped up to him, and Ryan shrugged.

Minutes later, they swayed their way outside. Ryan was still limping, which Shane had sort of forgotten about, and so any thoughts about personal space were damned all to hell when Ryan leaned up against him, Shane automatically propping him up as they made their way down the small path. 

Shane hadn’t seen the creature from that one night after that, and not for a lack of watching. Still, he held Ryan a little closer as they walked. Just in case. Man couldn’t run away, after all, he reasoned.

They pushed their way into the lighthouse, and peered up into the darkness. Ryan cupped his hands over his mouth to yell up, and Shane followed suit.

“BREEENT. BRENT, COME DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW.”

“WE MISS YOU SO MUCH BRENT.”

“WHY’D YOU LEAVE US, BRENT??”

Brent leaned over the railing at the top of the lighthouse, just a small shadow at the top of the tower. They could barely see him, backlit from the slowly shifting lantern. He laughed, and it echoed strangely down, a bare, musical sound.

“Oh my god, you guys. Keep it down!”

“Why?” Ryan snorted, “Who the fuck we gonna wake up? The neighbors?”

Ryan flopped down on their excess pile of canvas and rope, gracelessly avoiding his hurt foot. He’d managed to snag the bottle of whiskey with him- it must’ve been in his coat pocket. Shane hadn’t noticed until he lifted it to take another large swallow, passing it over. Shane took it obediently, studied it, and then yelled up to Brent.

“Is our game really over, Brent??”

“Yes. I’m working. I am so far away.”

“Not that far!”

“So far. Oceans away. Someone needs to work to keep this little family going.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. Shane shrugged, and took another drink.

Ryan sighed dramatically, raking a hand through his hand as he lounged. He looked surprisingly good in the shadows by Shane’s feet, knees parted like a photoshoot for no one. Well— Shane was there, he supposed, but he guessed that was a peripheral fact at best.

Ryan looked… rakish. Shane had never used that word as a descriptor for real actual people, but for Ryan— it fit. At least it did until Ryan tossed his head back. Then he just looked petulant. 

“Brent, we’re bored!” Ryan called up loudly.

A long pause. And when Brent responded, it was with an accent so highfalutin’ that it was cartoonish. Shane almost choked on a sip of whiskey, and it burned as he tried not to laugh.

“If the distance between us is troublesome,” Brent pronounced, “Perhaps await a letter from me? A proper correspondence should tide you over until my return.”

Shane blinked in surprise, and then called back up delightedly.

“Oh Brent! We are desperately awaiting your correspondence!”

They could hear Brent shuffling. Soft, slippery sounds just barely echoed down to them— and then silence, for a short while. 

And then from above, a piece of paper fluttered down. 

Shane scrambled to snatch it from the air and cleared his throat to read aloud, only stumbling once or twice through Brent’s drunken scrawl:

_My dearest(s),_

_I am oceans away, and I truly feel the distance between us weighing heavily. The nights are long and cold. My coworkers are my only company, and I feel one day I may strangle them in their sleep. I am counting the days when I finally return to all of your arms._

_send nudes plz_

_Sincerely yours,  
Brent Bennet_

Shane giggled. It was definitely a giggle. Brent wasn’t the only drunk one.

“Oh, Brent! You can’t see it, but I am absolutely _swooning.”_

Ryan was patting his pockets, scowling when he came up with nothing. He reached up and tapped Shane on the leg.

“Shane! Shane, you got a pen, right, you giant nerd? Draw a dick on the back. Send it back up.”

Shane tried to look appropriately scandalized and failed.

“I am not going up all those stairs just to deliver a dick, Ryan.”

Ryan scoffed and folded his arms behind his head.

“Fine. Your turn then. Entertain me.”

Shane considered this, running his thumb along the edge of Brent’s letter. He drew his legs up, sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. It didn’t matter how many times they swept it; it was like the dust just waited for them to stop looking and gathered right up again.

His tongue stuck out in concentration as he let muscle memory take over, fingers brushing the paper, folding and folding again. It was slow going, fingers clumsy with drink, but he made do.

Ryan sat up to lean in a bit closer, peering down at his hands, their heads bowed together in the dim. And Shane lifted the paper, now folded into a simple, lopsided little star. 

Shane tucked it delicately into Ryan’s breast pocket with a satisfied smile.

“Your turn. Entertain me.” He repeated back to him playfully.

Ryan rolled his eyes.

“This ain’t a give and take.”

“So what you’re really saying, Ryan, is you don’t have any skills?”

“I have skills!”

“Show me then.” Shane tapped his lip, considered Ryan up and down thoughtfully as the other man frowned at him.

“Gymnastics?” Shane guessed, smiling at the thought. Ryan was fit, yes, but not svelte. The idea of him grinning for the judges was also amusing. “Ooooh, wait, no, magic tricks, right? You seem like you’d be a fan of magicians. Not Houdini or anybody cool like that though, maybe some Criss Angel—”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” Ryan deadpanned. Then, he considered.

“Okay. Alright, I’ll show you something like a magic trick. Not that Vegas douchery. Gimme.” He plucked Brent’s origami’d letter from his pocket, and leaned in close to tuck it into Shane’s breast pocket instead.

Above them, Shane could hear Brent working, scraping at one of the tins. Ash trickled down like snow.

Ryan shifted position, wincing when he jostled his foot against one of the rusty metal rigging blocks, and pulled a coin out of his pocket. He absently spun it across his knuckles, and Shane’s eyes widened.

“Neat!”

“Oh, that’s not the trick.” Ryan looked flustered, “but thanks.”

He held out the coin between thumb and forefinger to show it to Shane. “This is a 1930 Liberty standing dollar coin. It’d really be worth something, if it weren’t so fucked up. But I still keep it for good luck.”

He leaned in closer still, his fingers brushing the edge of Shane’s jacket to drop the coin into another one of his pockets, this one at the side of his windbreaker. Shane cocked his head, breath hushing at their proximity as Ryan continued.

“And you can have it. It’s my lucky coin, and it means a lot to me. But-- only if you give me Brent’s letter back.”

Shane watched him, bemused, “What if I don’t want your coin?”

"Don't lie, you giant nerd. You definitely want it."

But Shane obediently reached into his breast pocket for the crinkled letter— only to find it empty. Huh. He checked his other pocket with a frown. He patted the pocket once more for emphasis, and gave Ryan a raised brow. 

Ryan smiled, a satisfied little curl, and held up the letter.

“Oh, so I wasn’t fuckin’ kidding about that magic.” Shane said.

Ryan’s face twitched.

“It’s not _magic_ , dumbass. It’s just pickpocketing.”

With his other hand he also brandished Shane’s wallet, letting it fall open. It was a worn, bare thing, no pictures, few cards.

Shane laughed, distantly aware about how stupid drunk he sounded. “Fuckin’ splendid, little man. Where’d you learn that?”

“ _Little man_?” Ryan bristled, “Just for that, I am absolutely stealing all the cash in your wallet. And making fun of your driver’s license picture.” Ryan scrunched his frame up and away from Shane, pawing through the folds of leather.

Shane laughed and lunged after him, shifting at the last second to avoid Ryan’s hurt leg in the tackle. It meant Shane landed in a weird half-straddle of his other thigh, one of Shane’s knees between Ryan’s legs.

“No!” Ryan yelped, leaning back into the pile of rope, holding the wallet out of Shane’s reach as best he could, but Shane simply leaned over him. His armspan was easily longer than Ryan’s, making it easy to pluck it out his hands, kneeling over him. Their chests brushed. Ryan made a sharp noise of complaint, snagging a hand in Shane’s shirt to keep him in place before he could pull back away. Their noses smudged together and Shane’s breath caught in his throat as his body responded, something warm sparking in him.

Something he’d thought he’d forgotten.

“Hey. Keep it down, down there! No fighting!” Brent called down cheerily, and they both froze.

“We gotta-- look, I’ve seen the way he— ” Shane whispered. He started to draw back, but Ryan’s grip in his shirt only tightened.

Brent. Shane already knew Brent liked Ryan— hell, Shane’d been trying to orchestrate their relationship the whole time, so…

Why the fuck was he so invested in their potential relationship, anyway?

“Brent likes you.” Shane said.

“Brent doesn’t own me. And besides, you like me.” Came Ryan’s response, low and crisp.

“Yeah, but I’m different.”

Ryan grinned. “Yeah, huh? Gonna admit it that easily?”

“No, I mean, fuck— ” — he was so drunk. He clasped his hands over his face. His fingers were cold, and they felt good on flushed skin.

“That’s not what I meant.” Shane tried again, slow, “I’m not… interested in anything like that, not anymore. Especially here, right now, in this place. And I’ve never been with a guy, and... I don’t intend to start now.”

Ryan’s eyes darkened, lips pressing in a line, “Oh, so you’re a coward AND a liar, then?” He said, a cruel lilt of amusement to his tone.

It was Shane’s turn to scowl.

They heard the creak of metal, Brent’s hands rasping on to the rails as he leaned out to peer down at them in the dim, head and shoulders sharply silhouetting a face too dark to see, and then they heard footsteps start down the stairs.

“Everything okay down here?” He called softly as he walked, trying a smile on as he started to come into view and failing to find the right one; a little too flat, a little too big.

“Yeah.” Shane said, scrambling gracelessly to his feet, long limbs unsteady. He held a hand out for Ryan, but Ryan gave it a dirty look and staggered to his feet on his own, wincing as he put weight on his foot.

“It’s fine.” Ryan said to Brent before he opened his mouth again. “C’mon, let’s leave Shane to his shift.” He limped to the door, letting Brent take his arm after a few steps, but even from here Shane could see the storm brewing in his eyes.

Shane sighed and trudged up the winding steps to his shift at the beam. His head was still spinning, but now most of it in his stomach, curling and coiling in uncomfortable circles inside him. 

Alone ‘til dawn. 

That was fine. Waiting out the night was all he ever did anymore.


	5. June (Ryan,Brent)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this. But trust me. Lots of chapters left to fix things.

**RYAN**

 

It was June, but it still wasn’t fucking hot- not yet. It’d grown humid instead, the ocean breeze a slick touch on their skin as Ryan and Brent made their way down the path together.

Brent reached out and laid a hand firmly on his arm, steadying him. Like Shane had done on the way in, but there was still a stark difference between them, one Ryan didn’t appreciate. Shane held on like it was the most natural thing in the world for them to be connected. Brent held on with concern written plain in his brows, like he couldn’t let Ryan forget he was a wounded animal.

Ryan hadn’t realized how much he was starting to like Shane until the option wasn’t there anymore.

Ryan slipped out of Brent’s grip and walked ahead, gaze down on the lines of moonlight in their path. Ever patient, Brent let him, though he did stride ahead to open the door for them.

“You want to stay up a little while longer with me? Have one last nightcap? Bet you the cider’s still warm,” Brent offered.

“No.” Ryan said, but that was a lie. He dreaded going to bed alone. Because, once alone, Ryan saw the ghost everywhere, every night now.

Still only in shadows, sure— but enough to make out that it was male, around his height it felt like. Not that it mattered. It wasn't like he could ID the guy. There were no photographs of earlier residents.

He’d heard once that ghosts could talk through radio waves, but testing them only lead to crackling static.  
And whenever he tried to catch a closer look, his stupidass foot got in the way of moving fast, and the ghost always disappeared too quickly to catch.

Once, he'd thrown his boot at it in frustration, but it'd just knocked against the wall as the shadow watched him blankly.

Ryan knew it would be waiting for him tonight, as soon as Brent went to sleep.

Brent kept his expression perfectly placid, and Ryan abruptly despised him, just for a single moment, the haze of alcohol rolling in his stomach. He’d drank more than either of the other two; it wasn’t like he had a job to do tonight. And Brent thought he was so chill, so perfect. Came here to this godforsaken island with open arms and purpose, unlike Ryan. 

He only saw it as a way out.

Brent shook his head when he realized Ryan wasn’t going to reply, and turned back towards the crackling remnants of their fire to start putting it out for the night. Back turned to Ryan, he spoke again, soft.

“...Did you and Shane kiss?”

Ryan scoffed. He didn’t want to do this.

“What’s it matter to you if we did?”

“Nothing, it’s just… well, we shouldn’t be letting things get too complicated here.”

Ryan laughed, a loud snort of disbelief.

“I wouldn’t care if you and Shane fucked. In fact, why don’tcha go ahead— go back to him right now, even. I’m going to bed.”

“...Are you alright?” Brent’s voice softened, his gaze not quite meeting Ryan’s. Like he was looking at the dark circles right underneath instead.

“Good night Brent.”

Brent said nothing else on the subject, turning his gaze away. “Good night, Ryan.” He said, and went to his room, his door shutting with a neat click.

When Brent’s door closed, the ghost was already waiting for him at the end of the hall.

Ryan sighed and sank heavily into the dining chair to reach for his mug of cider, hours cold by now. “C’mon, man. Don’t make me walk all the way down there. I’m tired, it’s been months, and you haven’t killed me yet. So I don’t think you’re going to.”

He took a sip of the cider; it was disgusting. Brent had added a pat of butter to it before, and now it was a greasy cold skim on top. He set the mug back down.

The ghost watched him, still as a coat of arms. The eyes were a darker black then the rest of him, large holes in his shadowed head. Ryan cupped his chin in his hand, elbow on the table, and drunkenly studied it.

“Well, go on. Fuck off.” Ryan said, his gaze twisting belligerent. He looked around the table and settled for a spoon, idly testing its weight before whipping it down the hallway. It clattered against the floor, the ghost blinking dark eyes when it swished right through him. 

And then the ghost stepped forward.

Ryan had never seen it move before. His chair legs screeched as he skidded back in his seat. He shot to his feet, skittering backwards the rest of the way, the sting of his stitches a dull throb rolling up his leg, dulled in his boot but not dull enough. He’d been on it too much today, he could tell already.

He stared down the hallway, uncertain what the next step should be, an impasse between him and the dark nothing. The ghost was still at the end of the hallway, but so was Ryan’s bedroom. He wasn’t going to sleep without getting closer to it, one way or the other.

But honestly, why couldn’t he? The stupid thing always disappeared when he came close, or brought a light to it. Just because it’d moved once didn’t mean it was dangerous. Hell, maybe he was just hallucinating it, the stress and guilt and tension all knotting up in him. Just because it’d been quiet for months now didn’t mean something _wasn’t_ going to happen, eventually. 

He wasn’t a free man, not yet.

Ryan narrowed his eyes, daring it to try something, and the ghost said nothing. Moved nowhere.  
He straightened up on tiptoes, cussing under his breath as his foot burned, and reached for the lantern hanging over the table. Emboldened by the drink burning threadily through his veins, he limped forward, holding the lantern in front of him, watching the figure. 

“ _I_ am going to sleep, and you’re going to leave me the fuck alone, right? Right.” He muttered, his light spilling down the hallway. He lifted it higher to let it lead the way. 

But this time, the ghost didn’t vanish when the light touched it. 

Ryan could see boots, wet from the ocean. Soaked jeans. A heavy coat, hanging on the very distinct frame of a man in front of him. Again, he thought of Shane- Brent- anyone he recognized that could be standing in his hallway, soaking wet and staring at him.

But that thought only lasted panicked fraction of a moment before the light lifted to hit the ghost’s shoulders, his face.

And he recognized him.

It was Ryan himself, mirror spitting image— except his ghost had blue-tinged lips to go with the dark circles under his eyes. Ryan stared. And Ryan stared right back.

“...The fuck,” he whispered, almost flatly. The other Ryan, the dead Ryan, said nothing. Stood silently with salt water dripping from his bangs, dripping from the line of his nose, eyes haunted . 

Ryan bolted, lantern swinging wildly as he pushed into his room and slammed the door. Latched it tight.

He leaned against the door heavily for a moment, but even then that felt too close to the dead Ryan on the other side, the door only a thin frame of wood between insanity. He limped forward, set the lantern on the floor beside his bed to keep it close just in case and his mattress creaked under his weight as he sat down heavily, drawing his knees up to stare at the door. The fuck was that? The fuck. Why-

He’d heard stories as a kid, of premising your own death- was that what this was? A warning? Was he going to drown here? Something icy settled in his lungs, like he could already taste the saltwater.

He breathed in, a deep ragged inhale and exhale. He needed to tell someone. He needed to make one of them believe, but they never saw a goddamn thing. As long as Ryan was with one of them, it never showed. It was like it was doing it on purpose. 

Or like he was insane, just hallucinating all of this, and they would never see it.

Maybe that was the better option.

He hadn’t showered for the night, washed his face or brushed his teeth, but it looked like he wasn’t going to. He hadn’t refilled the water pitcher at his night stand in a while, and everything else was in the shared bathroom. So he sat, stared at the door, and waited.

He didn’t know how long it was before he gave up and laid down. After all, the ghost hadn’t hurt him before, had it? Just because the ghost now had an all-too-solid approximation of his face didn’t mean anything.

That didn’t mean he was stupid enough to turn his bedroom light off, though. The propane light of his lantern could go, that was dangerous to leave on, but he left his squat ceramic lamp glowing on the floor. He could sleep with his own goddamn light on. No big deal. He could do it every night the rest of the time he was here, even, long as the generator held out. Who was here to judge? And maybe it didn’t even have to be the rest of the year. Maybe he could hitch a ride back on the boat when the shipmaster brought in their re-supplies. It’d only be a few months from now. He could wait it out. Six months away should be more than enough time for people to forget his face. Had to be.

Ryan scrunched his pillow up under his cheek and rolled over onto his side. He could sleep. He had a goddamn plan. 

He listened to the sound of the rain outside his window, trying to relax. No big deal.

He closed his eyes. Opened them. Closed them.

Rolled over onto his other side. Pulled the blankets over his shoulders.

Opened his eyes again, to watch the shape of the light on his wall. The lamp was on the floor, shining light under his bed and throwing the shape of the empty space onto the blank plaster of his wall. He traced the shape of it with his eyes, the motion meditative.

It was almost calming. Until it moved, a shadow shifting to block the light, something standing in the spare foot of space between his lantern and his bed, right at his back.

Something sick and cold ran through his system and he flipped back over to see the ghost- why bother calling it a ghost anymore, too solid- his twin still fucking watching him. Dead Ryan was soaking wet, hair a messy tousle over his eyes. He licked water from his lips.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Ryan hissed from his bed. His legs curled up protectively. There was nowhere else to run. 

The dead Ryan shifted, leaning in closer and Ryan saw his chest was damp, but with something darker and thicker than water. Ryan sat up despite himself, fingers white on the edge of his blanket as he got a good look at his other.

It looked like a gunshot wound. Ryan could see the torn hole in Dead Ryan’s shirt, wrecking one of the horizontal stripes in the cotton. Huh. The not-ghost in front of him was wearing black jeans with tears at the knees, a collared shirt of monochrome stripes- certainly nothing he owned. 

He didn’t wear stripes. It made him feel like a criminal.

So… no.

Not him.

But if it wasn’t him...

Something heavy settled into his gut when his intuition spoke, quiet in the back of his brain. He watched the ghost watch him, and that was when Ryan recognized him- well, that wasn’t quite the right word. 

He’d just forgotten what the kid looked like, back at that godawful bar. So seemed like the ghost was just filling in some missing pieces as best it could with a perverse sense of pleasure.

Ryan’d forgotten what he looked like, and so he looked like him. He had stolen Ryan’s rightful place, hadn’t he? Ryan had belonged here, and it sure as hell looked like Ryan wanted to take it back. 

The dead Ryan smiled, just a little, like he knew exactly what he was thinking. Blood dripped from his chest where Ryan had shot him. He smelled like dirty water from the docks where Ryan had thrown him in to sink under the silt, tied down with rocks so no one would see him again.

His wrists were even still red from the ropes.

“Ryan,” Ryan whispered softly.

The dead Ryan nodded, once. He assumed Dead Ryan was still wearing the same clothes from that night- he certainly recognized the same stupid beanie on his head, a bright cheerful shade of blue that’d floated off when Ryan hit the water.

“You can’t be here. This is- _I_ belong here now. Not you.” Ryan said.

He slid slowly from the bed, going to the far end to edge away from the ghost as best he could.

“No hard feelings, right? I saw an opportunity and sure, I took it. It’s your own damn fault! Drunk, bragging about this ‘amazing opportunity’. It was storming too loud for anybody to hear a gunshot, for anyone to look for your body. It was fucking _easy_.”

Dead Ryan blinked at him. Water dripped down his face.

“And I needed to get away for awhile.”

He tried to keep his voice low, reasonable, but he could hear it shaking, just a little. Maybe the ghost wouldn’t.

“So you’re dead. You didn’t have to follow me here. What’d you do, swim?” He tried to chuckle. Maybe this wasn’t a ghost at all— maybe the guy’d survived, somehow, and was just… an action movie hero or something. Swimming to the ends of the earth for his revenge, hiding in the shadows until his prey was good and rattled. Effective. Worked like a goddam fuckin’ charm— 

“You’re not missing much. This island? Fuckin’ _boring_. You wouldn’t like Brent, or Shane. They’re boring. Nobodies. You woulda hated it here.” He lied, almost smoothly. He liked it here more than he was willing to admit, especially when he saw Shane’s smile from across the table, maybe, sometimes.

Dead Ryan cocked his head at their names. He took a step forward, and icy fingers wrapped around Ryan’s wrist. Cold as the sea. Cold as death.

Ryan yelped, and everything after that happened without him.

He was ducking, yanking Dead Ryan off-balance by the grip on his arm and reaching for his lamp all at once and before he knew it he smashed it right into the ghost’s temple.

Shattered glass everywhere. Blood dripped down his fingers, Dead Ryan’s— oddly, garishly bright red for a dead person— and his own, his palm torn open. The pain brought him back, caught him up to the severity of the situation.

Dead Ryan wobbled on his feet, blood pouring down his face. Ryan gave him a wicked scowl and scrambled for the largest shard of ceramic to stab it forward, jamming it up into Dead Ryan’s throat. 

Dead Ryan let him, blinking once. Twice. Dark blood poured, cold on Ryan’s fingertips as those lips quirked into that small, damnable smile again, like he knew something he didn’t. Ryan growled and slid the ceramic sideways, tearing his throat open. A messier death, the second time around.

The body hit the ground, twitched once, and went still. Ryan breathed heavy, standing over him. He could feel his body shaking, but it was already starting to steady out. He worked well under adrenaline. He’d killed before. He’d probably have to again if he were truly unlucky, and he usually was.

It was just a body at his feet. Not a ghost. A body. 

And he knew what to do with those.

  


**~~RYAN~~ **

It took a long time to drag the body through the house. His foot throbbed with every heavy step.

He almost fell, once, twice, drunken sway and deadweight fighting with uneven floorboards. Dead Ryan doesn’t move in his arms though, not a twitch, a fuckin’ dead body two times over.

He dragged him to the cliffs, out of sight of the lighthouse- he couldn’t have Shane come running now. Too many questions he wouldn’t answer, and he didn’t want to have to kill him too, but he didn’t trust Shane. Didn’t trust Brent, didn’t trust anyone. It was how he’d stayed alive for so long.

He walked his way right up to the cliff, let the body drop to the ground beside him, the solid thud a lot heavier on soil than on the cement dock before. More final.

At least, he really hoped so.

He looked out to the glimmering surf, the rocks sharp and dark and endless right below him. And he shoved Ryan’s body with his boot to tip him over the edge.

….

He hummed to himself under his breath, out of tune and discordant as he limped back to their house and he already knew his foot was bleeding again, wet in his boot. But one problem at a time. 

He stepped back into the house and saw Shane had the key, so he locked the door tight, as if that would keep the body from crawling back up the cliffside, this time cut up and broken to go with the hole in his chest, to come to bed with him again. 

Ryan showered, probably using the rest of their meager hot water to stand under the spray for too long, idly watching the blood trail from his foot. He would have to scrape all that blood from his bedroom floor, too. It was going to take awhile. He wouldn’t get as much sleep tonight as he’d hoped, but he could take care of it. One step at a time. He was good at this.

There wasn’t a problem in the world Ricky fuckin’ Goldsworth couldn’t take care of.

  


**BRENT**

 

Brent tapped his pen against his notebook, looking at his own loose messy scrawl. He would have several notebooks full by the time he was finished on the island, and he hoped it’d all make sense by the time he was back home and ready to piece it together. He wished there was an easier way, like if he’ dragged a word processor or something with him. Something neatly typed up, instead of trying to decipher his own writing. 

He hadn’t had to wear long sleeves today, and the afternoon sun coming through the window as like a caress on his bare arms. It was lovely.

He heard Ryan’s door open, limping footsteps following after, and when he appeared, his dark hair was wild. His clothes were rumpled ragged, and he looked a wreck.

Brent gave him a smile.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead. Want me to make you some coffee?”

Had Ryan kept drinking after he went to bed, or was he just the type to get hungover easy? He certainly looked hungover. Like he hadn’t slept a wink, eyes bloodshot and barely open.

“I can do it myself,” Ryan mumbled.

True to form, Ryan limped to the french press, scowling when he saw it was still filled with grounds from the morning. He dumped them out cursorily in the sink, and Brent watched as he rinsed it out just as carelessly. Ryan was doing it all one-handed, bandages wrapped around his other hand.

“... What happened?” Brent asked. 

Ryan just shrugged. “My lamp broke. Cut myself.”

“You okay?” A pause, “You sleep alright, Ryan? You look like you had a rough night.”

Ryan laughed, a single sharp snort that surprised Brent. Then something softer shifted into his tone.

“That obvious?” He said, coming back to the table to let his coffee brew. He wasn’t looking Brent in the eye, staring unfocused at the stack of notebooks. He sighed, “I’m sorry, Brent.” Ryan scrubbed at his eyes, “I just get… I shouldn’t drink. Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Brent blinked. What had he done? He’d remembered the sound of the other two men talking softly, the teasing laughter echoing up the white column of the lighthouse. If they’d done anything more, he didn’t necessarily blame Ryan. He’d made his intentions (or lack thereof) clear. Shane, on the other hand...

He’d really thought Shane was straight. But mostly, he’d thought the guy was on his side.

Ryan only shrugged again. “Just in general. For me, y’know. I’m a dumpster fire. Don’t pay me any mind.”

They hadn’t discussed their drunken make out session, although Brent still thought about it. A lot. He could still remember the taste of whiskey on Ryan's tongue, the feel of skin against skin and the weight of him on his thighs. 

But Ryan didn't seem to care enough to bring it up, so Brent was trying hard to let it slide. He'd had scattered boyfriends in college, if they could be called that- a date, here or there. He'd been so busy trying to make something of himself, it just hadn't come up.

So for it to just fall into his lap, so to speak? He wasn't about to object.

But he’d give Ryan time, if that’s what he needed. To figure out what he wanted, or if he wanted it at all. Brent had other things to focus on. More important things, right? Right.

“I'm gonna go for a walk. Hey, you know what sage looks like, Brent?” Ryan said. Brent quirked his brows.

“Yeah. You well enough to walk?”

“Gonna find out, ain't we?”

Ryan slapped his thigh and stood. Brent closed his notebook and followed him outside. It was slow going. Ryan seemed to be limping worse than Brent remembered. But Brent kept pace to stay by his side as they made their way down the worn dirt path. It was furrowed in places, disturbed- probably the wind, or maybe some animal they hadn’t sighted just yet. 

Ryan was scanning the horizon for something, brows tight. He had a hand lifted to block the setting sun as he squinted; Brent could see blood dried under his short nails.

“Why are we lookin’ for sage?” Brent finally asked.

“You’re gonna think I’m stupid if I say why, so I’m keepin’ that tight to the vest, okay?”

“Okay.” Brent said, trying to keep his tone bemused. “I think I’ve seen some around. Does it matter what kind?”

“There’s more than one? Look, I don’t fuckin’ know. Guess I’ll find out.”

Together they veered off the path to wander through the waist-high grass, sun beating down on them. Ryan was going slow, but this time he shook off Brent’s offer to take his arm and steady him.

Something was bothering him, Brent could see that plain on his face, but he doesn’t know how to ask what it is.

He liked Ryan’s company, but honestly? He wasn’t sure why sometimes.

“... So, Ryan, tell me something about yourself. I feel like even though Shane’s a secretive motherfucker, you’re the one I know least about— and that’s really saying something.”

“What’s there to tell?” Ryan said, but it sounded a little strained, peering through the tall grass. Brent scanned with him, searching for the tell-tale fuzzy leaves of sage.

“Simple things,” Brent said. Anything, really. 

Ryan laughed. “Simple things? I got parents, I guess. A brother. I dunno, Brent, my life’s pretty boring.”

“What did you do, before coming here?” Brent realized he and Shane had talked about their work, but Ryan hadn’t chimed in, not once. 

And then he realized something else.

“Wait. Shane said you had a big family. Lots of siblings, cousins, all that.”

“Oh. Is that what I told him? Sure, that works too.”

Brent furrowed his brows at his back. “Why would you make something like that up?”

Ryan shrugged, at least managing to look a little shame-faced at being caught.

“I’m a liar, alright? When it suits me. Nothin’ harmful.”

Brent couldn’t say he was surprised. He couldn’t even honestly say he was disappointed. He saw a clump of sage,and kneeled down. He held out a leaf, showing Ryan the shape of it.

“So there’s no point asking anything about you, huh?”

Ryan raised a brow, leaning down to snag another leaf nearby, gathering up a small clump as he spoke. 

“Not really. But come on, what’s it matter what I worked at before coming here? Working’s just a way to get money. Everybody does it, one way or the other. I’ve done lots of things.”

“Fine.” Brent shook his head, a little rueful— but almost amused, somehow. “Give me some of your lies, then. That’s good enough.”

Ryan smiled back, for the first time all morning. Another leaf joined his handful.

“Orphan. Been wandering the street since I was twelve.”

That one almost sounded true, but Brent’s expression must have ratted him out, because Ryan switched gears and escalated, “President of a small South American country for while—”

“-Invented the original Snuggie, right?” Shane’s voice came up behind them with a grin Brent could hear, and Ryan nodded.

“Fuck yeah I did. Bastard stole my design.”

Shane looked over their matching armfuls of sage. “...What’s going on here without me?”

Brent rubbed a leaf between his thumb and forefinger, letting the fresh scent brush his nose. Shane smelled like clove oil, and it mingled nicely with the sage.

Ryan gave Shane a handful of sage to help hold. 

“None of your damn business, that’s what.” Ryan said, and Shane laughed. “You’re cranky when you don’t get your twelve hours of sleep, aren’t you? I haven’t even seen you all day.”

“Probably hungover too, remember?” Brent pointed out, and Shane’s gaze flicked to the sage.

“Is that what this all is? Some folk remedy I don’t know about?”

A bee looped lazily behind Shane’s head as Brent watched. They had such an odd way of flying, a pattern Brent could almost read. Lazy but perfectly symmetrical loops of some kind...

“You learn anything new about them?” Shane interrupted his idle thoughts, bringing Brent back to the moment as Ryan ignored them both with a cranky purse to his lips. 

Brent nodded, “They’re...bizarre. Almost unreal. I’ve never seen anything like them- did you know they’re bioluminescent? They must be picking up something from the ocean, it’s amazing.” 

“Oh.” Shane said, and he almost looked disappointed. 

“What?”

“Nothing, I just. I thought we had fireflies or something.”

“...No, not in this part of the west, I don’t think.”

“Huh.”

Shane had a funny look on his face Brent couldn’t read, but it smoothed away quick enough, Shane laying a hand on Brent’s shoulder.

“I got a fun fact for you, too.” Shane watched the bee land on a nearby flower. It wiggled in the pollen.

“More old folklore, since Ryan liked that other one. Maybe you’ll appreciate it. They call it the telling of the bees. If you own bees, you have to share with them all the major events of your life. Marriages, deaths, etcetera…”

“... Or what?”

“Nothing, I think?” Shane shrugged, “Just considered impolite not to. Bees are family, too.”

Brent smiled. It was cute. Shane was cute, too, in a dorky sort of way. Shane grinned right back and then waved them off. “I’m gonna head back inside. I’ll leave all this green stuff on the counter for ya, Ry.”

As Shane headed back down the hill, Brent turned back towards the other man.

“So how much sage do you think you need, Ryan?” Brent said, only to find Ryan wasn’t paying attention at all. He was still, looking out over at the cliffs with a furrowed expression.

“Ryan?”

Ryan’s expression creased, horror flitting across the whole frame of him, pure enough that Brent’s heart began to pound in his chest. He took a step forward, closer to the other man.

“Ryan, what’s wrong?”

And Ryan began to laugh, small hysterical giggles. He didn’t look at him.

“You like me, right Brent?”

Brent furrowed his brows, took another step closer. Ryan stared hard at the horizon.

“O-of course,” Brent said softly. He was pretty sure he was being too damn obvious about that.

“You wouldn’t have prefered if it’d been someone else here besides me?”

“No, of course not.”

Something in the way he was focusing made Brent feel like whatever he was looking at was getting closer, somehow.

“Gimme the sage. I’m going back inside.” Ryan’s words were clipped. He ripped the bundle out of Brent’s hands, holding it tight. Sage bruised under white knuckles. The scent spilled into the air.

“Ryan, what the hell is the matter with you?” Brent said. Ryan started to limp off back towards the cottage, “Wait, you’re going to rip up your stitches again- don’t you need help?”

Brent hurried to lay a hand on his shoulder. He could feel him shaking, but with fear or anger— he couldn’t really tell. 

“No, I— ” Ryan scowled, “I got this.” He waved the sage half-heartedly, turning his back to Brent to head back towards the cottage. The line of his lips told Brent to let him.

And Brent was left standing alone. 

He felt a sudden shiver run through his system, a moment of cold that passed just as quickly. Goosebumps prickled his skin. He could see clouds billowing on the horizon, but the breeze was still warm.

He frowned and took a step away from the direction Ryan had been looking so intently. And then, instead of the cottage, he headed up towards his apiary.

He sat down in front of the bee’s nest, watching them work. He let the calm wash over him. They seemed to slow down, pause their work, gather around him. Like they were listening.

And he told them everything. It was easier than he thought it was going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY. PLEASE TRUST ME.


	6. July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took awhile, my beta reader doesn't have time to beta read anyone's work anymore, so I was trying to be careful with it. And feeling kinda discouraged about it in general. Chapter 7's already pretty much done too, but still trying to look over that one myself too.

SHANE

 

_“Shane. What are you doing, baby?”_

_She smiles. She’s a thousand eyes in the darkness._

_“You really think you deserve a second chance here?”_

 

Shane awoke. Sweat dripping down his frame, the afternoon sun too bright in his eyes, too stark on his face. He was flat on his back, soil a cold contrast against his cheek.

He furrowed his brows, not remembering where he was until his eyes stopped squinting against the glare and swam back into focus. He’d fallen asleep outside, in the small cairn down the hill, their little ‘church’. Shane was decidedly not a religious man, but the other two never thought to look for him here, so it was good place to spend his afternoons when he wasn’t interested in company. Despite the three of them being alone on this rock, it was still more company than he was used to, and some days were harder than others handling the other two.

He sat up, scratching a hand through his hair and wincing at the dirt he brushed out. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It’d just been so cool and so quiet, and he’d been so exhausted lately. But as he’d slept the sun had sunk low enough that it peered right through the doorway, summer sun beating down on his skin. He was probably already sunburned; he could feel it on his cheeks.

He rubbed his hand down his arm to brush off the dust there as well, wincing as one of his bruises whined in protest. He had a few now, and he couldn’t remember how he’d got them; they were perfectly round, every one, like he’d run into a doorknob. Odd. He should probably be eating better was his only guess, an iron deficiency or something of the sort. It was bothering him, either way. But it fell in line with how often he was tired as well- he knew he was sleeping well enough.

He stepped out from his church and made his way back up the hill. But the lighthouse caught his eye when it came into view from behind the outcropping, and he stopped to linger. The walls of it were a worn whitewash from top to bottom, patched and cracked in places, the original red brick peeking through. Shane stared as he walked past it, brows furrowed. He remembered the lighthouse being… nicer looking. Maybe the harsh weather was already stripping the paint away? Maybe repainting it was supposed to be a yearly job? Shane tucked away the errand on his mental to-do list. They could repaint it together.

Oh, and then maybe even decorate it somehow? It didn’t feel right to him right now, naked, like something had been stripped from it.

There were a thousand different colored shells by the beach- perhaps they could replaster, and before the plaster dried, press the shells into some pattern at the base. That sounded nice, something meditative to fill his quiet afternoons.

That last thought vaguely bothered him too but he couldn’t place why, and Brent whistling at him from atop the hill by their gardens brought him back to the present.

“There you are! We were wondering where you’d ran off to.”

Ryan was with him, just outside the garden and bent over their tin washtub, scrubbing at his clothes in nothing but jeans. The rest of his clothes were in a pile beside him. For some stupid reason he’d only brought a few outfits- Shane saw how quickly he cycled through. So Ryan ended up doing his laundry at least three times more often than them.

Brent was fully dressed, weeding in the garden, and he smiled when Shane joined them. “You’re just in time to help! Ryan claimed he couldn’t spare more clothes to the dirt.” 

Shane scoffed, coming around to kneel beside Brent, pulling on the rough work gloves. He liked gardening, working the soil, methodically tugging away weeds.

“Ryan just doesn’t like getting dirty.” Shane said, and Ryan nodded enthusiastically. 

“Hell yeah, not even gonna fight you on that. Gimme all the city slicker jokes, I’m man enough to take ‘em.”

Ryan wrung out a pair of jeans and stood to hang them on the line. Shane watched him, tracing down over the bare line of his back, the dip of his tailbone, before the curve of his-

He paused, and purposefully turned his gaze away. He wasn’t going to entertain the thought. Ryan was a handsome man, no doubt about that. But Shane wasn’t the sort to lust after someone, male or female, at least not without really getting to know them, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever know all the dark nooks and crannies and cobwebs of Ryan’s brain. The man was exhausting sometimes.

Ryan was physically attractive, that was all. Shane was just… noticing a fact. He couldn’t deny he’d grown lonely over the years. That was it.

He could feel Ryan watching him now- Ryan had no doubt felt his eyes on him, but Shane didn’t let him make contact, dropping his gaze firmly on the garden dirt below him. There were probably earthworms down there, hiding in the cool soil. He absently pretended to be an earthworm, nothing more, at least until Ryan turned back to his laundry. That sounded soothing, care-free. He pretended as he dragged weeds from the soil. Dirt was his life. Wriggle wriggle.

“Sooo… where do you keep running off to, Shane?” Ryan asked. Shane heard him splashing behind him. He shrugged.

“Starbucks down the road. I have a crush on the barista.” He said absently without looking up. He could still practically hear Ryan’s smile in his response.

“What’s their name?”

“Why? You got a crush too?” Shane heard the lack of pronouns there, and he didn’t know how he felt about that, either.

“Crush is such a soft word. I don’t have crushes,” Ryan snorted.

Shane shook his head. He wasn’t going to try and read into any of this either. Ryan wasn’t the type for allusions or metaphor. And besides that, Brent liked Ryan. Brent, Ryan, Brent.

He frowned and jammed his trowel into the dirt. 

It hit something… weird. 

Not harder than dirt, but something that cracked and squished under the metal. He blinked, lifting the shovel to look. The soil crumbled under him and he could see it moving, roiling. Hundred and hundreds of small moving bodies- bugs, he’d hit a nest of some sort.

Now disturbed, they spilled out of the dirt in an angry roil and Shane scrambled back, a panicked noise rattling in his throat. Dozens of them crawled on his skin, soil clinging to their bodies like pollen.

Ryan and Brent’s gazes snapped to him at his noise, then to the dirt. Ryan dropped his clothes into the wash with a wet slop, rushing over. Shane barely noticed, skipping to his feet and slapping at the bugs. He felt Ryan’s hands on him, assisting. Brent leaned in to peer at the nest in the dirt.

“...Bees.” Brent said, puzzled, and he was right, those same strange bees with the blue honey, with their odd stripes and alien nature. Buried in their garden.

Their drone sounded so familiar to Shane, a niggling doubt he couldn’t draw out of his system. It was all around him, thunderous in his ears.

Brent scrambled to his feet as well, trying not to step on any of them as all three of them skittered backwards from the flood of insects spilling out across the garden.

“It’s okay. They’re not likely to swarm. We leave them alone, they leave us alone.’ Brent promised. Shane’s heart was pounding in his chest and Brent’s words sounded far away. Sweat ran down his frame. It pooled at the base of his spine. Seeped into his shirt.

“They’re animals. Fuckin’ insects. You can’t know what they’d do.” Ryan grumbled. Shane’s gaze darted to him, and he must have looked pale or something; he’d never noticed Ryan looking concerned for him before. It was a foreign expression in Ryan’s dark eyes, and it made Shane uncomfortable.

“I’m fine. Sorry. Sorry, just… not a bug guy,” he promised. He heard the waver in his voice, and Ryan must have heard it too. He laid a hand on Shane’s shoulder.

“Nah, Shane, don’t apologize. That shit’s horrifying.” he said.

Shane could feel Brent’s eyes on them, and watched as Brent turned his gaze back to the disturbed soil where the bees crawled over one another, metallic wings glinting in the sunshine. He only looked fascinated. Brent kneeled down to brush a finger down one in a gentle pet, and another landed on his hand. He watched it crawl over his knuckles, up and down like little valleys.

“We’re a quarter mile from the hive. Why are they burrowed underground so far from there?” Brent asked. He didn’t lift his head.

Shane didn’t fucking care, not right now. The adrenaline was leaving his system, draining from a sieve, and he felt like all his blood had gone with it, pale and light-headed.

He sat down on the ground again, away from the bees, just to catch his breath. He landed harder than he meant to, shock running up his tailbone, and Ryan gave him a look before coming over in sit on his haunches in front of him. 

“...You’re not looking so hot.” He said. Not that Ryan had room to talk; the guy looked like shit, like he hadn’t slept in weeks, circles like old bruises under his bloodshot eyes. Even his skin had a wan cast to it.

But Shane kept that to himself, shaking his head instead.

“Huh.” Said Brent, and they both looked his way. He sat with the bees, letting them crawl up his arms. He was watching one crawl over his thumb, and Shane saw a distinct drop of crimson run down the line of Brent’s knuckle before dripping to the ground. Other bees closed in a neat circle around the small spatter.

“...Dude. I think it fuckin’ _bit_ you.” Ryan said. Brent shook his head.

“No, no, bees sting. They don’t bite.” Brent said, vaguely. He gently shook off the bee onto a nearby tomato leaf and studied the blood welling.

“...That’s so odd.” He stood, “I should write this down.”

Brent wandered off, already lost in his own head. Shane watched him go with narrowed eyes. _That_ was his reaction to that? He was bleeding- Shane felt like he should stand, follow him, make sure he was okay, but he was so tired.

“...There’s still a couple of hours before sunset. I think I’m gonna go, lay down for a bit.” Shane said. If they weren’t going to finish gardening, and it was true the bees had bit Brent and he hadn’t just accidentally cut himself on something, then Shane certainly wasn’t going near that garden for a good long while. The weeds could stay. Hell, they could thrive. 

He could still see Brent’s blood on the shale steps, slowly drying in the sun.

At least the fucking bees weren’t drinking it.

He stood, wobbling on his feet before catching himself. The corners of his vision swam. Maybe he needed to start eating better? He was eating well, he thought, at least much better than before when he was just cooking for himself, and ordering takeout was easier than dealing with the empty kitchen. But he was also working a much more physically taxing job, so maybe it wasn’t enough.

Or maybe he was just coming down with something. Good timing- Ryan was just about healed up, after all. Rule of three.

He slipped inside and as he felt the cool shadows of their home on his skin, something immediately settled in him. Better. He was fine. A little heat sick was all. It made sense.

He wandered to his room and laid down. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

 

BRENT

It hadn’t hurt.

That in itself was interesting. Maybe they had something in their saliva, something to numb the- 

No, he was being silly. He’d never heard of carnivorous bees. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe it’d simply stung him and Brent had accidentally ripped the stinger enough to break the skin.

He wanted to test theories, find a conclusive answer, already figuring how this would fit into his thesis if he’d found something new, as he returned to his spot in the garden, notebook in hand, and watched the band of bees crawling in the upturned earth before him.

But Ryan wasn’t leaving him to his study. Why he didn’t just follow Shane in, Brent would never know. They were silent, together. Brent barely noticed him, watching the pattern of the bees.

“The fuck is wrong with you, Brent?” Ryan nudged him in the back with his boot, standing behind him. He still sounded friendly, enough for Ryan anyway. But Brent bristled anyway.

“Do you ever actually listen to any of my answers when you ask questions?’ He said, and Ryan raised a brow.

“Wow. You’re in a mood today, aren’t you?”

Brent didn’t want to think about Ryan and Shane. He wanted to do his studies. The reason he was here. The only reason he was here. Ryan and Shane could do whatever the hell they wanted. 

“So, uhhh… you should probably get the fuck away from the bugs now, right?” Ryan said, breaking through his thoughts. Brent didn’t bother to turn around.

“It’s fine. I’ve spent most afternoons with them. They’re harmless.” Brent said. His thumb sang in disagreement. It actually was starting to hurt now. He looked down. He didn’t see a mark anymore, smeared blood already dry and flaking away. But see? No bite, it was a fluke.

Ryan sat on his haunches beside him, eyeing the bees distrustfully.

“You don’t think they’re even a little bit weird? Like everything else here. Like-”

“We already know you despise this place, Ryan. You and your ghosts.” Brent snapped. He rubbed his eyes, trying to find patience for the other man, just another level of it to dredge up, but he was honestly starting to come up empty.

“Just...leave me the hell alone.”

“Fine. Jesus.” Ryan huffed and left, leaving his clothes drying on the line. They swayed in the salt breeze.

A calm settled around Brent. Better. It was always better when he was alone. Why couldn’t he remember that?

The bees hummed around him. It was a question. 

He smiled, shook his head. “No, nothing new since last we talked.”

Shane was right, there was something appealing about sitting in the grass and telling the bees. His own personal diary, without the embarrassment of re-reading his earlier thoughts. It was never a lot of words. Just idle questions and comments while he worked the hive. They always listened with their soft hums. He knew he was being silly, but he didn’t care. 

He was starting to get lonely, it seemed.

“Help me convince the other two that you guys aren’t dangerous, alright?” He teased. He kneeled over the gently buzzing soil and cocked his head at them with a gentle smile. And then without really considering why, he dug his arms into the earth.

It was cool, soft, the buzz electric down his skin. He lifted his hands, studying the fall of the soil, the bees crawling down his skin. It tickled, nothing else.

“Hello friends.” he said softly. Shane was fine. He’d simply panicked, overreacted when he’d dug up the bees. But they hadn’t hurt Shane, and they hadn’t hurt Brent. They-

Blood began to bead on the middle of Brent’s forearm, right by a freckle.

He pursed his lips, watching the red trail sluggishly down his skin. He felt light-headed, suddenly, thoughts hard to grasp at.

No. It was barely anything, a single bead of blood. An accident. He was fine. They were his friends. 

His eyes felt heavy. Maybe Shane was correct. It was a fine afternoon to sleep.

‘I’m fine.” He promised out loud, when the bees started humming their concern. He let his eyes drift closed, just for a moment.

...

He blinked, and looked around at the sudden rose-gold colors of sunset. He was still kneeling, but now his knees ached, trembling from exertion.

The bees were gone, the soil finally gone still in front of him. He examined his forearms. No blood. Bruises here and there. He’d been bruising easy since he came here, but that made sense. It wasn’t like he was used to manual labor.

He stood. The world swayed, just a little, like he’d been drinking. That fact, and the missing hours, those were adding up to something wrong, right? A problem?

Something small inside of him was struggling to be heard, telling him to pay attention. But his head hurt, and apathy was easier. 

He went inside and made himself some tea with blue honey. The sun was setting and with it the last of the summer warmth. It was always cold here at night. He curled into the armchair by the stove. He watched the empty coals in their fireplace. 

He watched the sunset’s light play on the kitchen wall.

“-Brent, you finally fuckin’ made it inside. I didn’t see you writing _anything_ down. Studies my ass. You still fucking mad at me?”

Brent blinked. When had Ryan come inside? It was completely dark now, Ryan kicking off his boots, apparently already finished with evening chores. Brent hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t heard- hadn’t seen Ryan coming , until he was standing right in front of him.

“Mad is such a strong word.” Brent said. Ryan rolled his eyes. Brent lifted his head to search his face.

“Ryan, what was the sage for?” he asked.

“None of your fucking business.”

“...I’ll bet you just have a _ton_ of friends on the mainland, don’t you Ryan?”

Ryan caught onto his sarcasm easy and he grinned, all teeth, “Finally fuckin’ figuring it out, aren’t you Brent? I ain’t worth your fucking time.”

Brent felt a pang inside of him that he tried to ignore. Ryan wasn’t supposed to agree with him. He wrapped his blankets tighter around his shoulders.

“I’m going to bed. It’s late.”

“No!” Ryan stopped, pursed his lips, “Brent. Stay up a little longer?” Ryan’s tone twisted a little, and Brent’s eyes narrowed. 

“Now why in the hell would I do that?”

Ryan fidgeted, folding his hands in his back pockets. He turned his gaze aside. “...Sage is purifying. Keeps the ghosts out. It’s working so far.” He muttered. Brent almost didn’t hear him.

There were a lot of things Brent could say about that. Cutting or kind. He chose the straight road down the middle.

“So if the ghosts can’t get in, what do you need me for?”

Ryan smiled, just a little at the corners, and gave a messy shrug. “I still can’t sleep. I keep thinking I might see him as soon as my guard’s down.”

“Definitely a him now then, huh?” That was almost sarcastic as well, but his tone softened when he studied the circles under Ryan’s eyes. Ryan wasn’t lying about losing sleep, the poor man even swaying a little on his feet. One day he was going to fall down the fucking stairs if he wasn’t careful.

“I’ll stay up with you a little. But, I promise you, the only ghosts around here are the ghosts in your head.”

Ryan scoffed. “Not helpful, Brent.”

True. If Ryan was truly hallucinating that badly, it wasn’t like a friendly reminder that it wasn’t real was going to fix anything. It was like sleep paralysis, maybe, the more Ryan thought about it, the more it happened.

Ryan was just stressed, probably, and it was manifesting in...unique ways. Brent couldn’t begrudge him that.

So they sat together until it was time for Ryan’s shift, and it was almost kind of nice, Ryan loosening the sharp lines of his shoulders the longer they talked. They made dinner together, and when it was Ryan’s time to go set up the lighthouse Brent even came to help, as it seemed like Shane wasn’t going to stir for a long while.

When Brent went to head back inside, Ryan tried to keep him up for awhile longer, mood almost cheery by now, but Brent was tired, and he knew he should get some sleep before his shift. He still felt weird, fuzzy and faraway, and he figured sleep would help if dinner hadn’t.

So he left Ryan to his own devices and returned to his armchair. A nap was fine.

Brent closed his eyes with his head still swimming sideways, and he scrunched his face against his pillow, listening to the wind outside. 

He fell asleep quickly, and he dreamed.

He dreamed of a man in his room, one who hummed softly under his breath as he stepped closer. He dreamed of the man cupping his chin, tilting his head back. The man lifted a gleaming bowl to Brent’s lips and poured moonlight down his throat. 

Brent couldn’t breathe, but he swallowed obediently.

 

~~RYAN~~  
RICKY

 

Ricky spent his entire shift holed up in the lighthouse . The ash was starting to build up, but he didn’t bother sweeping it up, he just swept it down the stairs instead. Good enough. 

It was a windy enough night it probably didn’t matter. He’d already had to relight the lantern half a dozen times his shift. He hadn’t been able to go back into the house the whole time. He was tired.

So he stood outside at the top of the lighthouse and watched their little island. It was late summer and the grass was dotted with glowing blue fireflies. It was pretty enough.

But, there was also a larger glow out at the edge of the island, vaguely the shape of a man, watching him. 

Ricky knew that had to be Ryan. Ricky hadn’t seen him inside in awhile, and he was starting to feel like the sage was actually working. Or Ryan was just fucking with him, one or the other. He was back to the amorphous nothing, only vaguely Ricky-shaped though, and Ricky liked to pretend that made him weaker somehow.

Either way his shift was over, and he could get the hell back inside.

He hurried, running down the shale steps, eyes on Ryan in the distance all the while. Ryan’s head turned to watch him go, silently.

He shuddered, running into the house and kicking Brent’s armchair along the way, “Wake up, your shift!” He called. Brent made an odd moan in his sleep and started, staring around blearily. His cheeks were flushed as he fumbled for his glasses.

“Ryan, I-”

“-Lemme know if you see anything weird out there, alright?” Ricky interrupted and then went into his room to shut the door. He wanted to cram his dresser up against the door, but he knew that wouldn’t stop Ryan, it would only stop help from getting in if he truly needed them.

He lit the bowl of sage he kept on the dresser, the now-familiar, comforting scent starting to fill the room. 

There. Now he could sleep.

He stripped out of his clothes and into the one and only pair of pajama bottoms he owned, freshly cleaned and dry from the line. They felt wonderful and it was warm enough to finally not have to sleep in layers. He was going to sleep well, he promised himself, and then crawled into bed with a heavy yawn. He wouldn’t ever pay off his sleep debt he’d accrued over the months, but he was starting to find something steady, finally.

Shane had scraped his window a little too hard and one of the panes had cracked a few months back, and Ricky idly traced the spiderwebbing lines of the shatter as he sought sleep. Just outside the fireflies lazily flit about, and those were comforting too, as his eyes drifted slowly closed.

...  
He awoke to the cheap wood of his bed creaking, a knee pressing into his side as someone leaned over him, studying his prone form.

Ricky’d already turned his light off, but the light of the full moon shining right through his window helped him see. Not that he needed light to know who it was.

“I think we should be re-introduced, stranger.” Ryan said in a low whisper, his voice a mirrored twin of Ricky’s, talking to himself in the darkness.

His hand was pressed into the mattress by Ricky’s head, his forearm brushing his ear, muscle and cold. Ricky growled, his hand slipping under his pillow until it closed on metal. He flicked the pocket knife open and leaned over to shove it into Ryan’s chest. He felt like flesh, metal puncturing past skin, nicking off the bone at the bottom of his ribcage and then giving, sinking in to the handle.

Ryan didn’t flinch. His blood bubbled cold on Ricky’s fingertips. Ryan leaned down without leaving his position over Ricky and flicked on the light. 

In the bright glare of the lamp Ricky could see Ryan’s throat was a messy slashed-open tear, his chest wet from the gunshot wound, both things Ricky had done to him.

But Ryan’s eyes were bright, amused chocolate, matching the smirk on his bloodless lips. His fingers laid over Ricky’s gently, sticky with blood and so, so cold.

“You can kill me a thousand times over. You can mangle me. But I’ll keep coming.”

“But why?” Ricky was aware his voice was higher than it should be, strangled panic. Ryan considered his answer.

“This island is odd. It doesn’t mind that I stay. And you-”

Ryan pulled out the pocket knife, and Ricky heard the wet suck of his punctured flesh. Ryan ran his thumb over the blade, tracing a trail through his own slick of blood.

“You took everything from me.”

He pressed the blade, still wet, against Ricky’s throat. He wasn’t being gentle, it already stung. Ricky stiffened under him.

“I told you, you didn’t need it, not like I did.” He whispered.

Ryan shook his head.

“I want it back. My body, my name, my life.” he said.

“They’re not yours, not anymore, just leave me the fuck alone, please-”

Ryan’s hand cupped his cheek. Cold and wet. 

“I’ve been watching you. Shane. You stole that kiss. It was meant to be for me.” He said. The knife pressed a little deeper and Ricky hand clutched at his blankets, swallowing a hiss of pain. There was nowhere he could move without cutting his own throat. Ryan was going to kill him, he was going to die right here in his bed and Brent and Shane wouldn’t ever-

“Think they’d still like you if they knew about me? Coward.”

That last word was spat out and Ricky pressed his lips together.

Ryan shifted to crawl atop of him the rest of the way, throwing a leg over his lap, and he’s cold where their skin touched, sinking into Ricky’s bones. Ricky could see his breath between them, but not Ryan’s, no. He took that from him. Ryan’s soaking through Ricky’s clothes, and in the dark he didn’t know if it was blood or ocean water.

Ricky heard a low, keening sound and realized it came from him, and he tried to form it into words, useful words that would get the knife away from him.

“I’m sorry, I was scared, I was- I’m sorry, sorry, sorry-” not much better than the noise.

Ryan touched his cheek, mirrored noses brushing.

“Not sorry yet.” He said softly, his words whispered like wind howling on window panes. He leaned down to press their lips together in a tease and it stung, Ricky stiffening under him. It’s okay, he deserved this. Whatever Ryan wanted that would make things even again. The knife pressed a little harder against the lean and Ricky waited for the end.

It didn’t come. Ryan simply sat up again, watching him quietly, blood dripping from his chest, and then...faded away.

When Ryan disappeared, Ricky tasted blood. It didn’t matter whose, not really.

He laid on the bed for a long time after, staring at the ceiling, still feeling the touch of Ryan on his skin. He didn’t know where he’d disappeared to, or why. The fucking useless sage still burned serenely, Ricky was suffocating under it.

Ricky felt like Ryan hadn’t left, not really, and he wasn’t going to sleep anymore tonight, breath running fast. So he slipped out of his room, pulling on his sweater. He’d only packed one, back when he didn’t know he’d been living on this icy rock for a year, back when his only plan had been to run as fast as he could and don’t look back.

He left his room. The kitchen was dark. Brent was probably up in the lighthouse, Shane was probably asleep. Ricky went to Shane’s room to knock anyway. He didn’t want to be alone. And somewhere stubborn inside of him, he wanted to prove he was meant to be here. Meant to be with Brent, with Shane.

No answer. He scowled and knocked a little harder, then shoved his ear against the door.

He heard something on the other side of his door, a low drone like Shane was running a fan on this warm summer night, but they didn’t have those on the island. Ricky frowned and banged harder. “Shane? Shane wake the fuck up, no one’s this heavy of a sleeper. Wake up.”

And since there weren’t locks, Ricky gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath and shoved open Shane’s door. He’d apologize later if-

Shane was a dark mass on his bed. Ricky could see movement, a subtle vibration in the dim, and as soon as his eyes got used to the moonlight, he saw what the movement was.

It was Shane lying in his bed. But he was covered in bees and they crawled over his skin by the hundreds, a dark writhing blanket atop of him. His expression was serene by what Ricky could see of it, brows furrowed like he was simply dreaming, as the insects crawled over his face. 

And the bees were glowing faintly in the dark, some brighter than others.

“The fuck-” Ricky started, and then rushed forward. Shane didn’t wake.

But the bees did, all taking flight at once, a single dark mass in the air. They stood between him and Shane in a vibrating haze, and Ricky stilled, heart thudding distantly in his chest. Together they were bigger than he was.

“...Go the fuck away. Leave him alone.” He scowled. But he took another step back, towards the exit, away from Shane.

And they...listened, drifting out through Shane’s window and leaving the room quiet. Ricky hadn’t noticed the loud drum of them until they were gone.

“Shane. Shane-” He ran over to Shane’s bed, skidding down to his knees in front of him to shake his shoulder. Shane was several degrees too hot, like he was feverish, and didn’t stir at the touch.

“Shane!” Ricky cried out.

Shane’s eyes opened halfway.

“...Ryan?”

“Oh thank fuck!”

Ricky threw his arms around him and pulled him close. Shane blinked heavily, but lifted his arms to hug him back.

“Ryan? What’s wrong?”

Ricky shook his head. Not Ryan. He didn’t want to be Ryan anymore. He wanted to hear Shane call him by his real name, a quiet little ache in his chest he ignored for now.

“The fuckin’ goddam bees, Shane.”

“What?”

Ricky explained as best he could, Shane’s brows knitting tighter together by the moment, until Ricky looked down at Shane’s arms and noticed something.

“That’s what these bruises are!” Ricky tapped on Shane’s forearm frantically, and Shane winced and drew his arm away. But then he studied it with a purse of his lips. There were specks of blood here and there, but the bruises were the bigger concern, dark and multitude. Shane studied the purple blotches with a purse of his lips.  
“I do have more.”

“See!”

Shane looked towards his window. It was open, warm salt breeze rustling the curtains.

“I don’t...not believe you. There are some freaky-ass things in the world. We’ll stop sleeping with our windows open.”

He paused, and then nodded once.

“We’ll ask the operator for advice. Steven. The bees aren’t new, probably. So if they were a problem, we probably woulda been warned about them. So we can ask.”

Fuckin’ logical, steady Shane. Ricky loved him right now.

“Right. Right.”

A moment of quiet passed between them. And then Ricky snorted.

“‘ _Steven?_ ’ You’re on a first name basis now with our operator?”

“Careful. You almost sound jealous there.” Shane commented idly, but he was still looking at his arm. And then he slapped both hands on his knees and stood.

“Well. Whether you’re fucking with me or not, I am certainly not sleeping again for the rest of the night. Shall we start the coffee brewing a little earlier this morning?”

Ricky nodded, and they walked together to their kitchen, to wait for Brent to return from his shift, to figure out what they were going to do next.


End file.
